


Things Past

by valantha



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: (not between the main characters), Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Alternate Universe- Indentured Servitude, F/M, Friendship, Gen, Pre-Het, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Trope Subversion/Inversion, hints of threats of non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-02
Updated: 2014-07-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 22:45:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 25,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valantha/pseuds/valantha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Young Master Fitz began addressing the air a meter from my shoulder, “I’m sorry, I didnae want this. I told my Da a million times I didnae believe in the system of indentured servitude, but here ye are. We both know things’ll go a fair bit worse for ye if I put your bond up on auction a second time, so here we are. We’ll just have tae make the most of it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day 1 - First Meetings

When I first met Leo, I was two months, eight days past my 18th birthday and it was the eve of his birthday. His 18th birthday. I was freshly washed, shaved, and clothed in this hideous tunic-dress, which really need to be worn with trousers or leggings. I was scared spitless and futilely tugging at the hem of the tunic to attempt to cover more of my thighs.

I had already been crudely yet cursorily inspected by Master Reginald Fitz, Young Master Fitz’ father, and read the riot act by Victoria, the housekeeper, while being led to Young Master Fitz’ room.

Victoria had, has, and always will have a pronounced distaste for indentured servants – despite having been one herself (not that I knew that at the time).

Victoria led me through Young Master Fitz’ study/workroom while ranting about standards of cleanliness. I _so_ wanted to look at the bits and bobs scattered about the room in various states of assembly, but then we were _there_. Young Master Fitz’ bedroom. The room in which I was anticipating spending the next eight years of my life.

Victoria gave an authoritative triple rap to the solid oak door, and I tugged once more on my dress.

A short, “Come in,” was proclaimed, and with a touch of malicious glee Victoria opened the door and shoved me in.

After a bit of a scramble to keep my footing – I certainly would have made quite an impression had I fallen arse over elbow – and turned to face Young Master Fitz.

He was leaning over a tome, the stubby fingers of one hand woven into his close-cropped auburn curls.

After a few moments of awkward waiting, Young Master Fitz had glanced up, keen azure eyes darting and he had said curtly, “I’ll be wi’ ye once I finish this chapter.”

His curt attitude had sent me into a tizzy of fretting. He sounded angry, and I hadn’t even _done_ anything yet. My mind raced through the possibilities – maybe my bond holder was just a grumpy guy, maybe I **had** done something wrong, some obscure Master-Servant thing I didn’t know about.

Up until three years prior, I had just been the middle child of a solidly middle-class family, then The Event happened and everything was thrown into chaos. **Then** X-ray technicians and primary school teachers were not the most marketable professions, and Sheffield (and all of England) was catastrophically tumultuous. This led to the Simmons family ‘treasonous’ attempt at fleeing to Scotland and ultimately me standing in that room in that fuchsia tunic-dress.

As I waited, heart pounding in a cliché manner, I began studying Young Master Fitz’s room. There wasn’t really anything else to do, except that which would only make me more panic-stricken.

Pointedly avoiding the Victorian era canopy bed with thick draft-eliminating bed curtains that I assumed I’d become very familiar with, I instead examined the Edwardian mahogany dressing table and matching wardrobe. The desk he was currently reading at was a gorgeous Georgian paired with a modern leather office chair.

The part of the room that most drew my focus was the understated – maybe even Ikea, I've never asked – wall of bookshelves, or rather the items on them. Young Master Fitz had a varied library. From the leather-bound classics – Shakespeare, Dickens, Verne, Orwell, even Austen, Bronte, and Eliot – to love-worn textbooks ranging in subject from quantum entanglement and petroleum geology to deformation stress tables. There was also a small section of biographies – Howard Stark, Tony Stark, Nikola Tesla, Henry Bessemer, James Nasmyth, and William John Macquorn Rankine – and a few modern fiction books, namely Harry Potter, though I’d never seen such luscious leather-bound and gilt copies. I had to clasp my hands firmly together to resist stroking their spines and see if they purred like the Monster Book of Monsters (they don’t, sadly).

I had turned back to the less tempting textbook section to attempt to determine a shelving pattern or common theme when Young Master Fitz coughed twice – one of those faux attention-grabbing coughs – I turned around shamefacedly, returning my attention to the man I knew it was now due.

The keen azure eyes I had noted earlier skated over me, and I tugged once more on my tunic-dress futilely trying to get it to reach mid-thigh.

The eyes turned aside, and Young Master Fitz began addressing the air a meter from my shoulder, “I’m sorry, I didnae want this. I told ma Da a million times I didnae believe in the system of indentured servitude, but here ye are.”

Young Master Fitz paused, sighed, and continued, “We both know things’ll go a fair bit worse for ye if I put your bond up on auction a second time, so here we are. We’ll just have to mak’ the most of it Miss …”

I had been frozen, mind racing a kilometer a second, unable to work out motives, when prompted, “Um, Jemma.” At Young Master Fitz’s inquiring look, I elaborated, “Jemma Simmons.”

He nodded once, firmly and asked, “Well Miss Simmons, do ye have any skills or interests?”

I shook my head. To this day I wonder if telling Leo of my curiosity in medicine and herbs would have made the next few weeks any easier. Oh well, it all worked out in the end.

Young Master Fitz nodded once, less firmly, more with melancholy, and the said, “This wing is set up in a Regency-revival manner, that door thare is to a room that was intended to be a women’s dressin’ chamber. I use it for storage. If ye can get it cleared oot, then in a day or two I can get Victoria to bring up a cot or somesuch for ye.”

 Young Master Fitz turned back to his book, leaving me feeling even more unsettled and confused. From the moment we were caught crossing the border, and the medical scanner cackled with pitiless glee at me, I was fair certain of my unpleasant fate. But my bond master didn’t turn out to be some slimy old wanker wanting a concubine, but a brilliant - if his library was any indication - man my own age who didn’t want me. At the time I wasn’t certain if it wasn’t some long con, some play for _me_ to seduce him, or some faux-munificent master bit. I had heard about such things before.

Mind a turbulent mess of confusion, and attempting to make out Young Master Fitz’s motives and personality, I did as I was bid, moving luggage and old school workbooks from my future bedroom.


	2. Night 1 - Sharing a Bed

After a fair bit of work – for the storage room was a right mess, even Young Master Fitz admitted _that_ – I had gotten my future room cleared out but for one trunk Young Master Fitz said I could use for storage and had put the rest of the dreck in various other storage locales. Mostly in the workroom/study, which just so happened to provide me with an optimal opportunity to investigate the oddments scattered there a bit.

I had just placed a stack of sketchbooks filled with diagrams – I had snuck a peek, curiosity being my major vice then, and now – in an under-bookshelf cabinet, when I noticed a left-handed nautilus shell. I had gently picked up the rare shell and noticed it was cut open to revel the lovely mathematical spirals within. Bravely, I stroked the iridescent inner surface of the shell.

Just then – optimal timing, right – Young Master Fitz walked into the workroom. I had frozen and then very gently placed the shell back on the shelf. I don’t quite remember what panicked thoughts ran through my mind, but even my pretty mild father hated having his natural science collections touched, I had no clue about how this terse Scotsman would react.

So, I blathered, “I’m sorry Young Master Fitz. I’m sorry, I was just – I won’t touch it again.”

Young Master Fitz glanced at the shell and then at my presumably terrified visage and said, “It’s fine, really. Just dinnae touch those.” He gestured at his various works-in-progress. “They might shock or hurt ye.”

I nodded through my shock, relieved at his reaction – or rather, _lack_ of reaction.

“Now, supper is in an hour, and ye need to decide if ye want to be a house servant or a body servant,” Young Master Fitz said.

I was just puzzled by both the question and the fact that he was asking, not telling. I had never been much for period peices, so I didn’t really understand the subtlety of the question.

Young Master Fitz must have caught some of my puzzlement, so he continued, “I dinnae care either way. I dinnae want someone cleaning up my stuff and I certainly dinnae need someone to dress me and ‘take care of urges’ so it’s up to ye and how ye want to be perceived.”

I was still confused, “Young Master Fitz I don’t understand the difference.”

“Just Fitz please. I hate my first name, and that whole thing may be proper, but it’s also a mouthful.

"If ye chose to be a house servant you’ll nominally be in charge of keeping my rooms tidy. Your meals will be ‘afore mine, and you’ll report to my half-sister Skye so you’ll likely have to help oot elsewhere too. If ye chose to be a body servant, you’ll eat after me, you’ll have marginally more prestige and there will be more _assumptions._ Not that there won’t be assumptions any way this goes, especially if my Da gets his way.”

I must have made a little noise as Fitz paused and then replied gratingly, “Yeah, there are rumors that I’m a nancy boy – ‘cause I’d rather have my head in a book than up some lass’s skirt – so my Da is either trying to ‘straighten me oot’ or disprove the rumors.

"But that’s my issue. If ye choose body servant I might be able to protect ye from others, and you’ll really only answer to me and Victoria.”

“But what would I do?” I asked.

Fitz shrugged, “Ye won’t be ‘taking care of urges’ or dressing me or any of that mince, if that’s what you’re askin’.”

It wasn’t, but I nodded anyways, confused by everything that had happened in the past 72 hours, but somewhat relieved by the past four.

Fitz figured the matter was settled and returned to his room to dress for supper.

* * *

After my supper – accompanied by only a moderate amount of probing questions and needling remarks from the other upper servants – I returned to Fitz’s room and found him pondering over a small pile of spare bedding.

He turned around, a guilty look upon his little baby-face – which I could not admit to myself at the time, but was really adorable – and said, “Well, I cunnae find much, but uh, I do have a blanket, and the chair is actually pretty comfy. I’ve fallen asleep in it more than once. Or we could share the bed. It’s plenty big. And I promise I wadnae take advantage of ye in any way.”

I cannot say what exactly went through my mind at that moment, probably mostly resignation and confusion with a touch of hope. But I agreed to the bed-sharing venture and not much later – for the Fitz family kept to Scottish country time and as far north as Aberdeen was, that made for some _long_ winter nights – found myself clothed in a pair of Fitz’ boxers and an old undershirt. Which, as odd as it might seem, actually made me feel less exposed than the fuchsia tunic-dress.

Body stiff with tension, I closed the thick dark blue velveteen curtains and climbed into the canopy bed with Fitz, slipping under the duvet.

Through the enveloping darkness I could make out Fitz’s form curled up near the edge of the bed, the distance and his studied indifference helped me relax marginally.

I just lay on my back, motionless, listening to Fitz’s breathing for forever. It took a long time for it to reach the even rhythm of sleep. Then I relaxed a bit more.

Once that ‘issue’ resolved itself, another made itself known – the odd sensations of Fitz’s boxers, all smooth silk and cold crispness. I had never had silken knickers, and the sleekness was unusual and intriguing.

 _And_ there was an odd lump right above my C7 vertebrae at the nape of my neck – the tagging chip. These past few days had proven to me that the rumors that not all the electronics in the northern latitudes were fried was the truth.

As I lay there listening to Fitz’s breathing, the slight pressure from the new lump became unbearable. I slowly and quietly rolled over to my side. I didn’t want to wake Fitz up. As I gingerly pressed my fingers on the foreign object, it slid over a millimeter or two; I imagined it grinding against C6. With that shuddersome image embedded in my mind – the small tablet encasing a tagging chip, apparently similar to those used in dogs Before, grating against me, my spine – I dropped my fingers and tugged the pillow down to my chest, hugging it against me for all it was worth.

I took several deep breaths to expel the image, promptly noticing how odd the pillow smelled – peaty and musky, not at all familiar or comforting smells at the time. I (correctly) supposed that the peaty aroma came from the Scottish water, and the musky, oniony smell came from the previous user of the pillow, my bedmate Fitz.

In an attempt to push aside the confusing and conflicting feelings _that_ elicited in me, I focused on my breathing, counting each slow, even exhale, and I must have drifted off at around 300, surrounded by unusual sensations and attempting to bury the knowledge that I was sharing a bed with my bond master and he hadn’t touched me. 


	3. Day 2 - The Morning After

The next morning I awoke slowly, leisurely, which in of itself was atypical; there was always something that needed to be done to keep the Simmons family going.

Then I became aware of my surroundings – the large posh canopy bed, curtains thrown open, and the smell of bacon and _tea_.

I sat up with a lurch, and quickly scanned the room. It was empty. No Fitz. There was a tray on the desk with breakfast for two, half eaten, and **tea**.

I slid out of bed and padded over to the desk, pouring myself a cup of tea. It was lukewarm, but oh so good. I remember it vividly. Pure heaven. It had been almost three years since I’d had a true cuppa – getting tea from Asia was a hassle and a half for the upper crust, and even getting tea from Turkey was impossible for most.

I debated with myself over whether this bounty was for me, and the presence of table- and flat-ware for two, and evidence that one set had already been used settled most of my uneasiness.

I took another savoring sip, and another and another. Soon I had downed the whole cup. I set it down and turned my attention to the food. Like the tea, it was the sort of opulence I hadn’t seen in three years – fried eggs, bacon, sausage, baked beans, and potato scones. I helped myself to a plate and another cup of lukewarm tea. I sat in the leather office chair, which was as comfy as Fitz said, and began feasting.

I was midway through the delicious meal when the door creaked open. I froze, a forkful of beans midair. My stomach clenched in fight-or-flight, but I tried to calm myself saying that all of my assumptions were logical, and puking now would help no one.

A girl – young woman, maybe 15 with sleek black hair – peaked in and said, “Oh good, you’re up.”

I placed the fork down, and smoothed out my attire. I might have only been wearing a cotton undershirt and boxers, but damn it, I was going to attempt to look presentable.

The girl – Skye, as I would soon learn – danced into the room (for that is really the best descriptor for how she moved) carrying a small tray of pills.

As she advanced, I explained, “I didn’t know when I needed to get up, and Fitz didn’t wake me, and I found the extra set of dishes, so I assumed…”

“Yes, yes. That’s fine,” She said authoritatively, “Do you want these?” She held out a pharmacist's bottle of Levonorgestrel - Plan B.

I remember my face heating with embarrassment. Not only was the question being asked of me, but by a slip of a girl.

“I know you don’t have many choices left, but you do have this one,” Skye said with shocking candor.

“No, uh… um, no,” I stuttered out.

“If it’s ‘cause of religious convictions, I’m sure God will understand the extenuating circumstances,” she said while placing the tray of drugs down on the desk.

At the time, I did not know if I could ever be more shocked by Skye’s frankness – oh, I could – and spluttered, “No, no, no, that’s not it.”

Skye’s clear black eyes narrowed, “You guys _didn’t_ sleep together, did you?”

I stammered, never being much good at lying, “Well, um, uh. No.”

“Great!” The girl exclaimed and threw her arms around me, engulfing me in a hug, crushing me against the office chair.

I froze, confused (and not for the last time).

“I knew Leo couldn’t turn into a giant douche-nozzle like Da!” she said, arms still around me.

The girl released me, and then stepped back to introduce herself, “I’m Skye, Leo’s half-sister, and I’m pleased to meet you Jemma.”

Still in a state of confused shock, I shook her hand.

That settled, Skye dragged the chair from the dressing table over and sat down, gesturing imperiously that I could continue eating. I did so, only to be stopped once again by a question.

“So, how come you’re here?” Skye asked innocuously.

Setting down the fork, I replied pithily, “Five counts of treasonous illegal entry.”

Skye whistled sharply, “Hardened criminal, you.”

“I’m serving for my whole family,” I elaborated, “We were caught crossing the border. These past few years we were law abiding, subsisting on the dole, helping out our neighbors as much as we could, but things just got too bad…

I took a fortifying sip of tea, “My mother, father, big brother, and little sister were sent back to England, and I’m here.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.” Skye said, pausing before adding, “My grandparents and friends are back in the States.”

I winced, thinking about how bad things must be there with the EMP, and the latitude, and infrastructure, and all the people with all of their guns.

Unthinkingly, I asked, “What about you?”

“Oh,” Skye started, “Mrs. Fitz died a few years before the Event, and Da convinced Mom – his American mistress – to move to Glasgow a few months before all hell broke loose. Then we moved here, and Mom died of pneumonia the first winter. Da thought it was just a cold, Leo tried to change his mind despite…” Skye gestured ‘the complicated tangle’ with her hands.

I didn’t know this girl from Adam, but her openness and sincerity were compelling. I reached out and patted her hand, and that is how our friendship began.

The sprightly girl shook off her melancholia and recommenced her ‘interrogation’, asking, “So, are you gonna help Leo keep up the charade?”

I nodded. Nothing I did would really change much, but maybe if I helped Fitz get his father off of his back, things would go better. Maybe. Certainly couldn’t exacerbate things.

“Goodie!” Skye exclaimed with childlike glee, and then returned to her too-serious mien, “So, about the Plan B’s. You’d take two about 12 hours apart, and it might cause GI issues, cramps, headaches, dizziness, weakness etc., so no one would think anything’s off if you just stay in bed for a day or two. Here is some Paracetamol for pretend tenderness down there, or any real pain, and here are the birth control pills. We don’t have a huge supply, so I might switch yours out for some fakes if you don’t think you’ll need it.”

I shook my head. I didn’t even _want_ to know how a girl my little sister’s age knew all that – though it didn’t take me long to find out that ‘douche-nozzle’ was a fairly apt descriptor for Reginald Fitz, and in Skye’s role as head of the house servants, she’d had to deal with some pretty awful things.

“Okay, just let me know if things change,” said Skye, “This is going to be so great. I’ve always wanted a sister!”

I was so blown over by _everything_ about Skye, that her statement of sisterhood didn’t even register at the moment.  

Skye skipped out of the room and I called after her, “What do I _do_?”

“Stay in bed, rest, sleep, read, whatever!” Skye tossed over her shoulder.

I turned back to my breakfast, trying to figure out the conundrum that was Skye – I still don’t think I have, fully – and the odd turn of events. Every time I began to figure things out, everything changed.

After I finished breakfast, I debated bringing the breakfast tray to the kitchen, but I didn’t really want to fend off questions and _looks_ when I didn’t even understand what was going on. So I grabbed  Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone instead, and settled back into the bed.

* * *

“Oy! Yer in bed still?” Fitz asked.

I had been curled up with Harry Potter, but I shot straight out of bed, hands still clutching the book.

“Skye told me to. To ‘sell the charade,’” I replied nervously.

“Oh, yeah. Okay... Sorry ‘bout that. Mr. Sitwell came in with the breakfast tray and saw you in the bed and he’s a huge gossip. So I just went with it, it was almost a foregone conclusion anyways. I said I kept ya up all night, which I’m pretty sure is close to the truth.”

I nodded and then lifted up the book, “Do you mind?”

“Yeah, that’s fine, but we’ll hafta work oot some ground rules sometime. But now I hafta get ready for various ‘coming of age’ rituals and legal procedures,” Fitz said petulantly before heading to his dressing room.

Again with the confusion.


	4. Day 3 – Curtain!fic

The next morning, over the hot breakfast Mr. Sitwell brought up (a responsibility I’d soon take over), Fitz decided it was time to lay out some ground rules. I’d like to say I remember the details for that important discussion, but I was still a ball of anxiety, and he was a tight-jawed lump of ‘I don’t want to do this.’ The actual rules were logical enough I didn’t have to remember them word-for-word or anything. The underlying gist of it all was that Fitz didn’t want me. In any meaning of the word. He was fine with me being around and borrowing his fiction and all, but he didn’t want to be bothered by me and he really didn’t want me to interfere with his work or touch his works-in-progress.

He did ask if I had any needs or wants and when I replied that I’d like a more appropriate wardrobe he smiled a bit. He said that Skye had volunteered to oversee me and help get me settled, and that less risqué clothes were on the agenda. I thanked him, and he blushed, running his fingers through the curls at the base of his neck before leaving to go do something or other.

I brought the breakfast tray down to the kitchen, and then I’m pretty sure I puttered around the bedroom, neatening up the cracked-open wardrobe doors (Fitz _always_ leaves them open), making the bed, and in general, just biding my time until Skye would appear.

Skye skipped in at half past 10. I don’t know why I remember that detail, I just do.

She was trailed by two men carrying a sturdy cot – almost a twin-sized bed – and I rushed to hold the door to the dressing chamber open.

The men settled the cot in my future room and I shyly thanked them. They introduced themselves as Miles Lydon and Mike Peterson before Skye good-naturedly shooed them off.

Skye surveyed the room and moved the residual truck to the base of the cot. She nodded firmly once and then tugged me out of the room squealing about “Shopping time.”

Shopping was a bit of a misnomer as what we really ended up doing was raiding the manor’s prodigious laundry.

Skye pointed me to a pile of clean, unfolded, sedate clothes – mostly for the housemaids – and told me to pick out what I wanted while she grabbed bedding from a different pile.

I sorted blouses from skirts from trousers and selected two bleach-white blouses and a pair of navy blue trousers that looked like they would fit.

Skye returned with a precarious pile of bedding. Sheets, a pillow, a quilt, at least two blankets, _and_ a duvet stretched her arms.

“That’s it?” she asked pointing at my meager stack of clothes.

“Two blouses and trousers,” I replied softly.

“You’ll need at least thrice that!” Skye exclaimed. “Here, watch those,” She said balancing her pile on a bit of empty countertop before leaving again.

I returned to the clothes pile and selected five more blouses, two more pairs of trousers, and a pencil skirt.

Skye returned shortly with a basket full of underclothes and a small stack of sweaters to try on. She nodded approvingly at the larger stack of clothes and tossed them into the basket before imperiously handing me a sweater.

Obeying the unspoken command, I pulled on the sweater. It was too big.

Still utterly confused about what was going on, I said, “Thank you. This will do.”

Skye chuckled and shook her head, “I don’t think so. It’s too big. Try this one.”

I tried on each of the four sweaters, finding two of them to be ill-fitting, and was convinced by a positively gleeful Skye to take both of the well-fitting sweaters.

After a quick stop to select PJs – wickedly soft cotton, I love those PJs – and another to get some feminine hygiene supplies, Skye proclaimed the first ‘shopping spree’ over.

As we walked back through the manor, with me carrying the pile of bedding and Skye carrying the basket of clothes, Skye began pointing out various rooms and landmarks, helping me get situated in the house.

Once we returned to _my_ room, I placed the bedding on my cot. Skye placed the basket of clothes on the floor, perched on the cot's bare mattress, and set about telling me all about the climate (how it was always too cold), little anecdotes about Leo (which ones, I don’t remember), and her hobbies.

I ascertained that Skye wasn’t intending to leave anytime soon and began folding my new clothes and putting them away in the trunk, setting one set aside to change into as soon as Skye left.

I had just finished folding the blouses when Skye mentioned off-hand something about Hermione and S.P.E.W. That captured my attention and we began conversing (or squeeing as Skye would say) about fanlore, Remus and Sirius, and the Marauders.

That, I believe, was the first time in five days – probably even longer – that I wasn’t afraid. It was temporary respite, but a welcome one.

In the middle of a debate over whether Remus ever really loved Tonks, Miles Lydon knocked on the open door and said, “Skye, we have an issue.”

Skye hopped from the bed, looked at me and said something along the lines of, “I’m right, you’re wrong; see you for lunch.”

I chuckled a bit and then set about making up my bed. It turned out that Skye had picked three blankets in addition to the duvet and quilt. Far beyond excessive. With a small smile I folded two of the blankets into an additional pillow and tidied up the corners of the quilt.

I changed into my new clothes and tossed the ridiculous fuchsia dress **away** in a fit of pique before sitting down on the travel trunk. I remember running my hands down my new trousers thinking: _I have a nice little nest. Now, what do I_ do _?_ _My indentured servitude situation does appear to be far better than I could have hoped for, but I’m not one to sit idly. Having nothing to do will drive me mad inside a week!_


	5. Day 8 - Getting to know you

Hours passed slowly and days passed quickly in the paradoxically non-linear manner time often passed. I gradually learned my way around the Fitz household and attempted to scratch out a niche for myself.

For the first few days I attempted to revel in the experience of having nothing to do. It didn’t work out too well. I grew bored with the limited sphere and responsibilities and I found I grew bored of reading Harry Potter hour upon hour, day after day – sacrilegious, I know. I can’t count the number of times I used to wish just that, that the Event had never happened, and I had the luxury of spending whole weekends lounging about reading my heart out. But it turns out it’s not as great as you think it’ll be. Sure, I would have enjoyed it more, had I not been terrified of _something_ happening and changing my whole world around yet again, regardless, I was – and still am – too active of a person to take to such limits with ease.

Skye tried to help me as best she could, but she is a busy person with many responsibilities. She gave me simple assignments and took me on her scrounging expeditions to the attic – which is where I found a threadbare but beautiful Persian carpet for my room and some dog-eared botany books. They were from the 1800’s but the black-and-white sketches therein were works of art. Skye gave me an indecipherable look when I begged to borrow them and promised to treat them well, but she acquiesced.

Fitz didn’t want me around, but he was also _responsible_ for me, so as I tried to take his wishes into account and stay out of his way, I also attempted to make his life nicer, better, easier.

Fitz didn’t want me around, but he appreciated his breakfast, lunch, and tea arriving on a more regular schedule than when Mr. Sitwell delivered them. Fitz would rarely take a break for lunch, but would drop almost anything for tea. I learned Fitz was quite fond of chocolate biscuits with his tea and potato scones with his breakfast. He liked raspberry preserves and hated cherry. Whenever the kitchen had potato scones I wheedled extra out of Cook. Whenever the kitchen had only cherry preserves I didn’t bother putting any on Fitz’ tray. Tiny, unnoticed things, but they made me feel good, like I had some control over my life and environment. 

Fitz enjoyed his pre-dinner bath, but would sometimes get so wrapped up in his work that he’d have to rush through a cold bath in order to clean up for dinner in time. So I started carrying hot water from the kitchen in through his work room instead of pumping up cold water and heating it in the bathroom. It took a bit more work, but it provided a subtle reminder of the time so Fitz could wrap up whatever he was fiddling with and get a nice bath in before dinner.

Fitz was incredibly hard on his clothes – grease stains, mysterious tears and holes, and missing buttons abounded – and on the morning of my eighth day, Skye made them my problem. Frankly, it was a welcome relief to have _something_ to do.

I told Fitz that I was going to be going through his closet and he absentmindedly gave his assent.

So it began.

I raided his Edwardian mahogany wardrobe and dressing room, and laid all of his clothes (minus his knickers, thank you) out on his recently made bed and began to sort.

Jackets, shirts, and trousers that were in good condition went into one pile. Clothes with dropped hems, missing buttons, or easy patching went into another pile. Dress shirts with many tiny, hard to mend holes went into a third pile, and clothes with impossible-to-remove stains or what looked to be scorch marks went into a fourth.

I returned the tiny pile of clothes in good condition to the wardrobe and spent a minute staring at the other three piles. I knew _technically_ if I had access to some strong solvents, good detergents, and perhaps some supercritical CO 2 I could get out those grease stains, but the probability of me getting those things lay somewhere between improbable and impossible, and I didn’t know how to technically remove scorch marks, so I returned the stained and scorched garments to the bottom of the wardrobe.

My needlework skills weren’t much, but I had helped to keep the Simmons’ family wardrobe in one piece, so I could sew a neat hem and do some simple mending. Tiny holes in dress shirts; however, were beyond my skills at the time. Setting that pile aside to ask for help from Skye, or at least guidance on whom to ask for help, I began work on the second pile.

Gathering up three shirts – one with a dropped hem and two missing multiple buttons, but otherwise in good condition – and the sewing kit Skye had gifted me that morning, I moved to Fitz’ workroom.

The explanation I would have given – even to myself – was that the workroom was far better lit. The truth was that I was intrigued by my master and his fiddling, and was curious to see him work. Though the bit about the workroom being better lit was the truth too. Most of the manor is lit by old-fashioned gaslight but Fitz’ workroom has its own generator – one he made and serviced himself – and thus had electrical lighting (among many other electrical conveniences).

After I had settled myself into a corner, and began sewing on a replacement button, I took a moment to look about. Fitz was working on what appeared to be a miniature windmill and by the time I had sewn three buttons back on he had transitioned to sanding the windmill blades.

This activity didn’t require much in the way of thought (apparently) so Fitz – after some abortive, grunting attempts – struck up a conversation with me, “So Miss Simmons, where are ye from?”

I glanced up from the button and replied, “Sheffield?”

“Oh, weren’t there some bloody bread riots there ‘bout six months ago?” Fitz asked.

I nodded, and then realized that his eyes would be on his work, and said softly, “Yes.” One of my brother’s friends was killed during the rioting.

A bit later Fitz made another attempt, “So Miss Simmons, ye like Harry Potter?”

I smiled, hiding my grin in my downturned face and loose hair, “Yes. Who doesn’t?”

I wasn’t _intentionally_ trying to make it hard on poor Fitz, but I guess it came out that way.

“Right,” Fitz replied and let the conversation drop.

After maybe a quarter of an hour or so, I realized what an arse I’d been and said, “My father was a primary school teacher and his friend was the school librarian. She gave me the first book on my tenth birthday. I fell into the book, and found friends that will be with me always.”

I glanced up and Fitz was smiling a soft, secret smile and he replied, “I got the first book on my tenth birthday too. The next year I kept waitin' for an owl from Hogwarts to arrive an' magic me away.”

“Me too,” I shared, and we continued our work in companionable silence.

I’m not sure if it was the smile and how it rearranged the features of his face, or the wistful way he admitted his childhood dream or both, but that moment unlocked something deep inside of me, and I knew I didn’t really have to be afraid any more. I wasn't completely right, but let's not get ahead of ourselves. 


	6. Day 13 - Florence Nightingale Effect

I wouldn’t say I made short work of Fitz’ clothes, for it was more of an iterative process, but I replaced buttons, patched trousers and jackets, and mended hems. I asked Skye about darning dress shirts and she directed me to the Woman in the Laundry.

The Woman in the Laundry had a quiet competence about her, and was lethally skilled with needle and thread. She mildly taught me how to darn the tiny holes in Fitz’ dress shirts with the absolute minimum of conversation. As I left, apropos nothing, she said that _certain_ males dared not enter her domain and if I needed a refuge for a day or two, the laundry was a warm safe haven. It took several years for me to learn her name was May.

* * *

On the afternoon of the thirteenth day, I was sitting in my room enjoying the light of a rare bright winter day while darning a shirt and pondering the botanical differences between _Calendula officialis_ and _Tagetes patula_ when I heard a yelp. I’m positive Leo would argue against its classification as a 'yelp', but that is what I heard.

I set down my mending and walked softly to Fitz’ bedroom, and then to the doorway. I was unsure of what I would see, and didn’t really want to draw attention to myself if there was something I ought not see going on in Fitz’ workroom or the hallway.

After a darting, cautious glance, I released the breath I had unknowingly held. Fitz had his hand caught in one of his contraptions and was cursing a blue streak under his breath.

From the doorway I meekly asked, “Would you like some help?”

“No,” Fitz grunted in reply.

I was of two minds about his response. He was a genius and would be able to get himself out eventually, but I thought I would be able to help. I stood a moment, wondering if forcing my assistance upon him would help at all, before turning away.

“No, wait. Sorry. Could ye hand me those pliers over thare?” Fitz asked.

I dashed across the room, grabbed the needle-nose pliers he gestured at, and passed them off. Then I stood by, perfectly willing to serve as surgeon’s assistant.

After a bit of fussing (and cursing) he reluctantly asked for more help, “Could ye take a look ‘round back an’ tell me what ye see?”

Fitz talked me through pressing a release button for the ‘blasted metal-bladed ring o’ daith’ or ‘optical diaphragm’ – depending on whether you listened to Fitz before or after his hand was released – and in short order he was free.

Fitz thanked me and rubbed at the abrasions about his wrist. The metal blades of the diaphragm bit him, and between the minor degree he was bleeding and the grubbiness of the blades, I feared infection.

Dispensing with my earlier hesitancy, I led Fitz to the bathroom and washed out the grit and grease with the very convenient (if cold) tap.

I tried to be gentle, but after a bit Fitz pulled his wrist away, “Hey, hey, hey! That’s enough now.”

I girded myself and didn’t back down, “If we don’t get the muck out, then it could get infected. One of my neighbor’s daughters got just a bit of a scrape on her elbow. But it got infected with something nasty, and there was nothing my mother could do.”

Fitz grumpily acquiesced – I knew it was just a façade – and several ‘bloody hells’ later I had washed out every bit of grease and grit.

I released his hand with a warning, “Don’t run off,” before rummaging about in the medicine cabinet. I remembered seeing some antiseptic cream in there earlier.

“Ah ha!” I exclaimed as I found an old – likely expired – tube of Dettol antiseptic cream. I gestured that Fitz should take a seat on the edge of the bathtub. He did so without complaint (which is surprising now that I know him better).

I squatted in front of my patient and dabbed the cream on the broken skin before gently yet firmly wrapping some clean toweling about his wrist.

“There,” I said, recapping the tube, “All done.”

“My thanks Miss Simmons. Ye’ve got a deft hand at this, ye said your mother was a doctor?” Fitz asked.

“No,” I answered, “She was an X-ray technician Before. She always wanted me to be a doctor though.”

“What about ye. What do ye want? Do ye wanna be a doctor?” Fitz asked in an unfamiliar, earnest tone.

I looked down, and probably began fiddling with the tube before answering earnestness with honesty, “Maybe, somewhat.”

Fitz just looked at me encouragingly.

“Did you know that Sickle Cell Anemia is caused by one single point mutation? One ‘misspelling’ in a haemoglobin protein can cause the haemoglobins to stick together in their deoxygenated form, which causes the red blood cells to 'sickle', which leads to capillary obstruction and a whole bunch of downstream problems. And Cystic Fibrosis too, just one protein with a frame-shift mutation and **_bam_** ,” I stopped, realizing that I’d been rambling about nonsense, gesturing wildly about with the tube of cream, and ducked my head in embarrassment.

“Sorry. I babble sometimes.”

“Naw, it’s okay. I get it,” Fitz said kindly.

At the time, I didn’t know how true that statement was, and continued fiddling with the tube of antiseptic cream.

It wasn’t until Fitz’ uninjured hand brushed the hair from my face and tilted my chin up to look into my eyes, did I get a glimmer of the veracity of his words. Had he ever touched me before? I wasn't sure then, nor now.

“I get it. I get the passion for figurin’ oot how things are broke an’ how to fix ‘em. I really do. Why do ye think I spend all day, every day in there, tinkerin’? Attemptin’ to bring us – Scotland, the UK, the world – back into the modern era? So, ye _do_ wanna be a doctor,” Fitz concluded, his hand firmly on my chin, his eyes boring into me.

I began softly, “When I was little, I wanted to be a biochemist. I wanted to figure out the nitty-gritty details of life. More: what causes the haemoglobin to stick together and fix _that,_ and less: how to keep the person with Sickle Cell Anemia comfortable and alive. But that is an unachievable dream.”

I pulled my eyes from his and continued, “I guess my grownup dream was to be an herbalist. I wouldn’t get to discover the unknown, but I would get to learn more and help people. My mother served as sort of a nurse for the neighborhood, and I apprenticed under her. But things got so bad people couldn’t even pay her back for her services. And she couldn’t turn them away. Father thought things would be easier up here, so we tried to sneak across the border. And, yeah, you know how that story ended.”

“Not ended. Began,” Fitz proclaimed, dropping his hand from my face to gesture with it, “I want ye to become an herbalist. I ken yer bored stiff with the mendin’ an’ all, and ye seem to be a bright one. We’ve got a fair library, and there is a pharmacist down the way in Kintore. Mebbe this spring ye can start yer apprenticeship back up with him. It would be good to have a herbalist here too.”

I began imagining a life I could have after my term of my indenture. A small life: a cottage, an herbalist’s garden, helping people, being free, having enough to eat. Helping out my family as best I could.

I pushed my imaginings down, and brushed away an escaped tear before replying, “Thank you. I don’t know what to say, but thank you.”

I fled, to escape the emotions; the hope.

“And keep your wrist clean,” I called from the doorway.

This, Leo would later tell me, was the moment his feelings for me transitioned from grudging tolerance to interest.


	7. Day 21 - Girl Talk

Fitz kept his word and brought me a fair stack of botanical and medical books from the manor’s library the very next day.

We fell into a new pattern. I’d wake with the sun and breakfast in the kitchen with the other servants. After I brought up Fitz’ breakfast, I would take some bit of mending (now primarily working on stuff from the laundry) and a book into his workroom – for the light still – and would read a page then do some mending while thinking on what I just read and then went back to the book. Every now and again Fitz would ask me about what I was learning and I’d babble on excitedly about the proper use and dosage of _Digitalis_ or the causes and symptoms of renal failure, but for the most part we were just two people working in the same space. I’d ignore most of his cursing and he’d ignore my hmmms and giggles – one of the botanists had a very droll sense of humor.

At noon (or thereabouts depending on when it looked like Fitz would be ready to take a break) I’d fetch his lunch and then go down and eat my own. Sometimes Skye would meet me in the kitchen and shanghai me into some ‘shopping trip’ or attic adventure, which would wrap up in time for me to bring Fitz his tea and the rest of the afternoon would continue on much as morning had.

I’d stop my mending/studying in time to prepare Fitz’ bath, and while he was bathing I’d treat any new grease stains on his clothes (a stitch in time saves nine, as they say). While he was at dinner I’d bathe or continue mending/studying. After dinner Fitz would turn off the generator and read. He forbade me from continuing my mending by gaslight, he ‘didnae want ye to wreck yer eyes that wye.’ So I would read too, for a bit, before bed.

* * *

After I’d been at the manor about three weeks, Skye had a slightly different afternoon adventure planned.

She said she needed my help in her room and led me there. I expected that Skye would have a room in the same wing as Fitz and of a similar style, but instead her room was right above the kitchen, in the servants’ wing.

Her room was small, just a bit larger than mine, and mine was a closet. But it was cozy. She had a thick tapestry over her window and a small mountain of throw pillows and quilts upon her bed. There were beach posters on her walls and one love-worn pooch settled in the pride-of-place by her headboard.

Skye noticed my examination of her room and replied, “I had a big room, but it was always cold and damp. This is warm and comfy. Come on now, I need your help.”

Skye gestured imperiously for me to sit on the bed. I sat gingerly upon the edge, for the mound of pillows and such made the rest uninhabitable.

Meanwhile, Skye dug around in her dresser and pulled out a hairbrush and some hair-ties – which she tossed to me – before plopping bonelessly on the thick carpet beside the bed.

I’m pretty sure I just stared at the brush and ties in befuddlement.

Skye smiled at me – not with me, at me – and said, “I need you to braid my hair.”

This didn’t particularly help my befuddlement, but I acquiesced to her request and began brushing out her glossy black hair.

I asked, “French braid or normal?”

Skye shrugged – which resulted in a bit of unintentional hair pulling – and said, “Whichever.”

Her hair was thin, and silky and I found myself pondering how she kept it so healthy as I plaited her hair.

Skye shared some gossip about people I hardly knew and I felt the tension I didn’t even know she held ease from her body. Skye was so confident and self-assured I sometimes forgot how young she really was.

After I finished, she commanded we swap places. Skye practically buried herself into her bed and she began brushing out my hair. I was sort of embarrassed by the state of my hair. Even before I’d been caught, I hadn’t spent much time on my hair, and now, after using soap as shampoo and using a dilapidated brush I’d found in one of the Skye-led attic-raids, it was most decidedly not in the best of conditions.

Skye was quite gentle with my poor mistreated keratin fibers and the feel of her fingers on my scalp as she gathered up my hair to begin was superb.

Mid-braid, Skye stopped talking about which maid had her eye on Mike Peterson this week and asked, “What are your intentions towards Leo?”

“What?!” I asked, craning my neck about to see if Skye was being serious. She was.

“I like you; you’re nice. I may only be Leo’s bastard half-sister, but I care about him, and I don’t want you to hurt him,” Skye continued

I was flabbergasted, “I did even know I _could_ hurt him! I have no intentions towards him at all.”

Skye still held my half-braid in a vice-like grip, and she said, “You’re the first person since me that he likes. That he’s interested in. Of course you could hurt him.”

“Wait. Likes, likes? _Interested_?” I squealed.

“I don’t know! You think he’d tell me? All that I know is that he is interested in what you do and asked me to dig up some more medical books for you. That’s _big_ in Leo-world. Books equal love to him,” Skye chattered.

“Wait, wait, wait. Back up,” I commanded. “What is going on here? I just want to get through my term of indenture as best I can. If I end up learning herbal medicine, well, that would be a dream come true! Already my indenture is orders of magnitude better than I thought it would be when we got caught. But I don’t need no bloody mind games! Did you plan this whole girl-bonding time thing just to get me away from Fitz and get a literal hold on me for this?” I gestured at the braid-leash and Skye dropped it suddenly.

“No… actually,” Skye admitted shame-facedly, “I’ve always wanted to have a slumber party with hair and make-up, and Truth or Dare, and the question just sorta popped out.”

I released my rage with a massive sigh, “Oh.”

I began again, this time more levelheaded, “Fitz is smart and far kinder than I expected and he has a nice, symmetrical face, but he’s my bond-holder. My master. I have zero intentions towards him. I don’t want to hurt him, but if I have any say in the matter, certain boundaries will be maintained. You’re a sweet girl, and this first part was fun, but where I am – what I am – is always in the back of my mind, influencing my actions.”

“I was willing to do whatever it took to get through this experience and back to my family and my life, but I have no intention of selling myself for what?” I began to get a bit hysterical again, “If that’s the price for the books and the apprenticeship, well, I need to think on it some more, figure out if the price is worth paying.”

“No, no, no! I’ve made a huge mess of this all! All I meant to say was that Leo sees you as a person, not a complication or a tool, but as a person, which is rare for him,” Skye had even more literally buried herself in pillows and was clutching her stuffed doggie fiercely.  It almost made me feel sorry for the girl, but I had a lot more on my mind.

I asked to be excused and ran and hid in my room, my thoughts a tumultuous mess, until teatime.


	8. Day 36 - Christmas gift fic

The next few weeks were… strained. Skye acted oddly around me, oscillating between a forced, reserved distance and overzealous friendliness. Fitz acted the same as always, but I overanalyzed everything he said and did searching for signs of _expectation_. All this simply added to the stress of the season.

Skye and Victoria Hand were attempting to prepare the manor for the Christmas season whilst balancing the Fitz family traditions with Skye’s perceptions of a ‘proper’ Christmas.

It was hard for me, seeing the Yule log preparations, the Evergreen boughs and tree being dressed and placed, and traditional and pseudo-traditional baked goods being made. Christmas was a time of family, and fellowship, and mincemeat pies, and I didn’t even know how my family was doing.

* * *

The winter sun had already set on Christmas Eve (near the solstice the days aren’t even 7 hours long!) as I was working on building up a proper fire in Fitz’ room. The forced air heating system Fitz had built right after the Event worked well enough for most days, and we only needed a fire on the bitterest and most howly nights, but a fire was traditional for the long Christmas eve. It wasn’t the truly proper Yule log, but either way it wasn’t Christmas morn without a banked fire.

Fitz returned to the room and coughed twice – one of those attention-seeking coughs, not a true sign of illness – I set down my pile of tinder and sat back on my heels to see what Fitz wanted.

Fitz was dressed in a fine tweed suit and his normally boisterous curls were well greased and tamed to within an inch of their lives – if keratin fibers had lives. He looked rather nervous, and his right hand was clenched tightly about something while he brushed his left against his trousers in a futile attempt to dry it.

I was unsure I wanted to know what had worked Fitz up so – but with Skye’s words from two weeks prior flashing through my mind _you’re the first person since me that he likes, I don’t want you to hurt him_ – I scrambled up and asked gently, “Yes?”

“Here,” he said, shoving his hand into mine and dropping a solid weight into it.

I looked at it, it was a key, and I was unable to add two and two together.

“Tis a key to the library. My Da loikes to keep it all locked up an’ all. He’s afeared people will nab our knowledge or somesuch. If ye’re hassled any, just say yer lookin’ stuff up for me,” Fitz continued.

For some reason the sum of two and two was still a mystery to me, and all I could do was utter a confused, “Thank you?”

“Merry Christmas,” Fitz said, and in a moment of crystalline resolution the solution ‘4’ came to me. Fitz was giving me a Christmas gift, not an expected Christmas ** _box_** of _noblesse oblige_ , but a Beauty and the Beast-like Christmas gift of a library. Skye was right. He did have feelings for me. Shiteballs.

After that moment of crystalline clarity came a murky colloidal moment and then my brain rebooted.

“Wait! I have something for you,” I called after Fitz, “It’s not wrapped yet, let me go get it.”

I had expected a gift exchange to occur on Boxing Day, so hadn’t yet put on the finishing touches, but it would be insupportably rude not to return Fitz’ gift, even if I didn’t return his feelings.

I dug the gift out of my trunk – still wrapped in the sweater I was storing it in until I could ‘borrow’ a box or something – and hurried back into the room.

I placed the sweater on Fitz’ desk and he looked rather puzzled. I felt the smallest (evilest) twinge of pleasure in confusing him as much as he had me.

Fitz unwrapped the sweater-package and revealed a jumble of bits and bobs.

He gave me a confounded look.

I reached down to the bottom and drew out a wooden chessboard. I had found it – with a bit more than a half set of pieces - in the attic a while ago. I began placing the sanded-clean set of wooden pieces in the white ranks.

I then began pulling out aluminum washers and placing them where the black pawns ought to go. Bits of copper piping were the rooks. I had wound the tail end of some wire into two bishop hats. Two dud capacitors soldered onto another bit of piping formed the black knights. I had thought long and hard about the king and queen, and had found two pewter D&D or Warhammer figurines. The king happened to be a Wizard or some other sort of spellslinger and the queen was an Eowyn-like Shield Maiden.

I studiously focused on the set-up, and only hazarded a glance at Fitz once the whole was laid out. He was eyeing the board most covetously. I supposed that was a good sign, silly Simmons. 

“I found the board, the wooden pieces, and the figurines in an attic. The rest I found in your rubbish bin. I outright stole the washers though. I don’t know if you play, but every genius inventor-type at least needs to display a chessboard as a token of their genius,” I explained.

Fitz preened a bit at the classification ‘genius inventor-type’ and picked up the knight. I now know he was admiring the creativity it took to form an abstract horse head out of a tantalum capacitor and a bit of piping, but then I feared he was critiquing my soldering abilities or even getting angry at me for using his soldering iron.

To distract him I began blathering, “I was thinking this version could be called ‘Vegetable vs. Mineral’ but that’s just an idea, and I was hoping to play one game some time, but we don’t have to if you don’t want to, I was going to get a box to put it in, but I thought I had until Boxing Day.”

Fitz placed the Knight back in G8 and grabbed my gesticulating hands with his own.

I froze. Had he touched me before? Yes. After I freed and patched his torn wrist.

“Thank ye. It’s a braw chessboard an’ I’d love to play a game or two,” Fitz said earnestly.

My heart stopped. Or maybe it raced?

“I’ve got to go, downstairs, Skye’ll skin me alive if I’m late, but mebbe later?” he ended with a lilt of hope.

I nodded silently in reply. He left, and I was left turning the library key over and over in my hands. My thoughts were racing too fast for coherent thought, and my fingers itched for a pen and paper. I needed to write out the evidence and a pros and cons list. I needed to work this out. Silly Simmons, indeed.


	9. Day 44 – White Knight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning this chapter: threats of non-con. Not too graphic, but certainly worse than chapter 1.

On Christmas Day Fitz and I played our first of many chess games. We argued over whether Vegetable or Mineral should be granted the right of first move, but there was no need to discuss Fitz playing Mineral and me playing Vegetable. We both played fairly timidly at first, trading pawns and jostling for position. Then Fitz threw down a nifty castling move and I had to step up my gameplay. I won by the barest of margins, having had to sacrifice my queen to save the king.

That first game set the pattern for subsequent games. Fitz would dust off moves from old chess books while protecting his king and queen and I would scramble to defeat the archaic moves using my queen as the kickass warrior queen she was.

On Boxing Day, Skye came up to me and begged my forgiveness – which I granted easily, d’uh! – and handed me a box. The box contained the normal assortment of things – fake birth control (though only we two knew it was fake), new underthings, a hairbrush, more toothpaste, and wonders of wonders: a science officer teal jumper, complete with embroidered combadge. I squealed with delight and handed Skye her gift – 6 certificates for girl-bonding time. She saw my squeal and raised me a hug (Skye’s a very huggy person). Things reached a new dynamic equilibrium.

* * *

After the New Year’s visiting season was over, I had a bit of free time to visit the library. Finally. The library wasn’t quite a grand as I conceived based off of the heavy brass key and an active imagination. There was only one level of books – no spiral staircases or rickety ladders. The bookshelves were built-in, but there was no ornate gilt work or fancy carving. It smelled like old books - ink, leather, dust - also known as happiness. There were no opulent chaise lounges, simply a reading desk in the middle with an additional paraffin lamp for extra light. The room was neither strikingly well-lit nor oppressively gloomy, it was what it was: a large, serviceable manor library.

After a bit of browsing, I found what I was looking for: the medical section. I meticulously catalogued the contents for later perusal (Fitz **had** already brought me many of the more obvious selections) and after a complete inventory I doubled back and pulled out a lovely 38 th edition of Grey’s Anatomy. It was massive and gorgeous with tissue-paper thin pages and scrumptious illustrations.

I carried the tome over to the reading desk and lit the lamp. I opened the book to the section on kidneys and attempted to absorb the knowledge therein. Running my (clean) fingers over an illustration of a renal tubule I read about the fine blood vessels and pondered the beauty of the world.

While completely wrapped up in glomeruli (please excuse the small anatomy pun) I took no notice of the world around me. Which was bad. The state of constant awareness, cautious alertness, guarded wariness that I had drawn about myself during the first month or so of my indenture would have served me well in this instance, but I had grown _comfortable_.

I didn’t even realize there was someone else in the room until I was rudely pinched on the hip.

I yelped, jolted from my world of nephrons and Loops of Henle into the smug face of Master Reginald Fitz and his sour-wine breath.

“Ah! So here is where Leo’s wee mousie has bin hidin’.”

“Yes sir. I mean, no sir. I mean, this is the first time I’ve visited the library,” I stammered, leaning as far from Fitz’ father as possible.

“Hmmm,” he grunted in a non-committal manner and eyed me predatorily.

I very nearly lost control of my urethral sphincter.

“Fitz knows I’m here. I mean, Young Master Fitz gave me permission to be here. I’m doing research. For him.”

“I daen’t gie ma son, nae at all, but I guess ye dae have a ‘sexy librarian’ sorta look about ye,” he said staring at my white blouse with the top two buttons undone.

I knew how this story was going to end, but my mind raced near the speed of light examining probabilities, attempting to figure a way _out_.

“Well, I really should…” I said, meekly not making eye contact, but that’s okay, he wasn’t looking at my _eyes_ anyways.

Master Reginald Fitz interrupted, “Yer odd medical _thin_ ’ is fine so lang as ye keep ma son from his nancy boy ways.”

I nodded, scooting my feet together into a better-to-launch position.

“Why are ye actin' so twitchy? Bide a wee. Mebbe ye need tae try oot a real man?” He said wrapping his large hands about my shoulders, pressing me into the chair.

“I don’t think Leo would be keen on sharing…” I attempted, not daring to throw him off physically but cheeky enough to use Fitz’ first name.

Master Reginald Fitz began to chuckle, but he was wondrously interrupted.

“You’re right Jemma. Da, gie oot,” Leo said firmly. I hadn’t heard him enter.

There was a long moment - where I was not audacious enough to take a breath - while the two Master Fitz’ glared at each other, having a silent contest of wills.

The elder retreated, releasing me – though not before giving me a condescending pat on the cheek – and said over his shoulder to Leo, “I’m glad yoo’re enjoyin’ mah gift so weel.”

As soon as the door shut behind Master Reginald Fitz, I sagged into the desk chair, relief suffusing my skeletal system. Leo didn’t fare much better and sunk to the floor.

“I was so scared,” I admitted to my hands.

“Me too,” Leo replied, “When Miss Weaver tauld me Da had followed ye intae the library… I was scared, Jemma, so scared.”

We stayed there, breathing, for hours; or well, at least until my heart rate returned to normal. Once my heart stopped racing, I noticed something off. There was a pressure in the air, a weight more oppressive than Master Reginald Fitz’ hands, an indicator of something momentous about to occur. It became unbearable, and with a thunderous knell, I both closed Grey’s Anatomy and dispelled the weight – at least for the time being.

Fitz picked himself up off of the floor and after a counterproductive dusting off of the seat of his trousers (his hands being covered in grease having come directly from his fiddling and the library floor being immaculate) he gestured for us to leave.

I trimmed the paraffin lamp’s wick and returned Grey’s Anatomy to its shelf before following Fitz out of the profaned library.

* * *

Neither one of us liked to talk about what was narrowly averted (I learned years later that it was The Woman in the Laundry who had sent Miss Weaver to Fitz, though how _she_ knew, I’ll never know) nor what that feeling of momentous pressure entailed, but we both knew _something_ happened or was about to.

I believe it was the first time I had spoken Fitz’ first name and maybe even the first time I thought of him as Leo. I _know_ it was the first time Fitz used my first name – a standard of proper behavior he had previously adhered to absolutely – and he had saved me like a prince out of a fairy tale, like a knight-errant from literature.

In short, we were stuck on a precipice in the fog, not knowing which way lay the path and which way lay a horrible death – metaphorically speaking.

And, I was never truly comfortable in that library again.


	10. Day 55 – An Extra Hand

After what nearly happened in the library with Master Reginald Fitz, I learned caution again; only truly letting my guard down in the presence of Fitz – for even Skye admitted her presence was only a slight deterrent to her father’s ‘poor behavior’. I was ever vigilant while fetching Fitz’ meals and recommenced heating his bathwater _in situ_.

But after that _moment_ when nothing happened but everything changed, Fitz’ presence was never truly free from the pressure, the vague tension of what might be. Despite the tension, I knew in my heart of hearts Fitz’ intentions were pure. Skye was right, he saw me as a person, not a complication, not a tool. He hadn’t saved me so I would be indebted to him, or because I was merely his responsibility, he saved me to _save me._

I wrote that down on my pros and cons list, and my list of evidence – which I’d had hidden under my bed since Christmas Eve.

And then I burned them.

If he was going to see me as a person instead of as my station, I owed him the same privilege.

Or so I swore. Actually implementing such a radical overhaul of my thought processes was easier said than done. I caught myself backsliding more than once, but during the moments where just the two of us were working beside each other in the workroom it became easier and easier to see 'just Fitz' – or sometimes even Leo – instead of seeing Master Fitz. It became easier and easier to react to him as if he was a neighborhood boy (not that any of them could hold a candle to him intelligence-wise) instead of the man who held my bond and by extension, my life, in his hands.

* * *

One day, about two months after I first met Fitz, we were working in his workroom: I was crosschecking the validity of various traditional herbal remedies (all pretense of mending and studying at the same time dropped, with Fitz’ blessing) and Fitz was puttering about attempting to get a portable two-way radio transceiver - or walkie-talkie - working.

“Simmons?” Fitz asked.

“Yes?” I replied curtly. I was in the middle of combing through the index looking for evidence to corroborate a possibly effective herbal antiseptic.

Just a week prior I would have dropped everything and not dared to hint at any annoyance.

“Dae ye have a moment? I need some help wi’ this,” Fitz asked.

Suppressing a sigh, I used my notes to mark my place and walked across the room to see what Fitz needed me for.

He was attempting to solder a capacitor to a bit of circuit board but the leads weren’t behaving. Fitz needed a third hand.

Giving the hot solder the respect it warranted, I wrangled the rogue capacitor for Fitz, and then stepped back.

“Why are you trying to make a walkie-talkie anyways?” I asked.

I had never asked him so directly about his work. I listened eagerly if he volunteered information – which he rarely did – but I had always thought it improper and presumptuous of me to question my bond-master in that manner.

But then, there, he wasn’t; he was just Fitz.

“Well, ye ken that the massive solar flares an’ resultant EMPs known colloquially as The Event knocked oot all satellites and fried the cell towers. We nae longer have the abilities tae repair such intricate systems, but longish range instantaneous communication is still huir uv useful,” Fitz explained.

I nodded easily, “But what about the messed up magnetosphere and strong solar winds? Won’t they interfere with or distort the radio transmissions?”

Fitz blinked, startled. I was a bit miffed that he had underestimated me so. I gave him a moment to adjust his notions about me.

“Um, och aye, they would, but I’m takin’ their interference intae accoont. These walkie-talkies won’t have quite th’ range as they might uv, but they should be able tae pierce through the interference. Hopefully.”

I became intrigued by how Fitz would be able to amplify the signal and reduce the effect of the solar winds, and asked him just that. He answered, which spawned another question, and so on and so forth. We talked about induced current, Faraday cages, the Great Geomagnetic Storm of 1859 and more. Until I realized what I was doing, that is – I was questioning my bond-master in his area of expertise.

I stopped mid-sentence. Fitz looked questioningly at me, and my blanched face.

“Forgive me Master Fitz. That was presumptuous of me,” I stared down at my hands. See, I told you there was backsliding in this story.

Fitz blinked, startled yet again, “What? What is this aboot? What’s this Master dreck? I had a stoatin’ time! I cannae talk aboot this sort of mince wi’ anybody. But ye? Ye understood me! Didn’t ye?”

I was cheeky enough to give him a little look communicating _of course I did_.

“Well then, yoo’ve got nothing tae apologize fur,” Fitz said, “And yoo’re pure reit aboot the VHF bands. They’re like as tae be more stable, and there’s no need tae be limited by the outdated frequency allocation regulations anymair. I didnae ken ye were interested in this sort of stuff.”

“Who wouldn’t be interested in learning as much as possible about The Event?” I replied.

Fitz nodded firmly, conceding the point to me. “Why didn’t ye say anythin’ earlier?”

I shrugged. It was impossible to explain my reluctance without being at least a little disparaging towards him, without talking about my reluctance to put myself forward at all. Both far beyond my comfort limits at the moment.

“So, do ye want tae help me save the warld?” Fitz asked, his cherubic face aglow.

I did, I really did. But I also wanted to learn all the medical and herbal knowledge I could. To help people. Even after this truly bizarre indenture ended. So I was torn.

“I promise you’ll still get tae apprentice wi’ the pharmacist in Kintore this spring,” Fitz added, deducing my hesitancy perfectly.

I beamed at him, “Let’s save the world.”

Leo put out his hand, and we shook on it. Pride bubbled up within me, filling my chest with a warm glow. It was a glorious moment in time.

Then he pulled out his blueprints and electrical diagrams and began explaining the walkie-talkie in depth. At the time I was too afraid, too exhilarated, too embarrassed, to point out that while I had fiddled with my electronic toys a bit as a kid - and utterly destroyed a VCR - and had learned quite a bit from watching Fitz at work, I was completely lost by circuit diagrams and their impenetrable lines, zigzags and arrows. I attempted to follow the tsunami of Fitz’ words and watched his animated gestures. I had never seen him like that before. It was the first time I had been granted the honor of seeing the true, uninhibited, Fitz.


	11. Day 89 – A Day in the Limelight

After we shook on our pledge to save the world, things with Fitz changed again. He wasn’t always as verbose as he was that first day, but he took to verbalizing his thought processes aloud. His manner of teaching, which was to explain what he was doing and sometimes the whys behind it, but become utterly flustered whenever I posed a question mid-lecture, left things to be desired. That being said, I learned a lot from him about mechanical and electrical engineering.

To give a clearer account of those early days, and make sure my life doesn’t appear to be one major event after another, I’ll tell you about one perfectly normal day.

It was about three months after that fateful day when I – scared spitless – first met Fitz. I had reached the point where I thought of him as ‘just Fitz’ maybe 68% of the time. Sixteen percent of the time he was Leo and 16% of the time he was Master Fitz (yes, a bell-curve).

I awoke before dawn tangled in the many blankets Skye deemed needful. Skye was an ectothermic American and was continually pressing blankets and warm clothes on me. It’s okay. It’s how she shows her love.

I got dressed in my tidy and crisp pseudo-uniform and padded quietly out through Fitz’ room.

I went downstairs – neck prickling with the slim but non-zero possibility of running into Master Reginald Fitz – and quickly broke my fast on a bowl of hearty and nutty oatmeal and the weak tea made from leaves that had already been seeped once. It was a fine start as Fitz was more than generous sharing his pots, and I’m embarrassed to think about how fast I’d become addicted to that xanthine alkaloid.

I carried up Fitz’ tray and placed it on a clear patch of his desk. I threw open his bed curtains and did a bit of studying in my chair in the corner as the odors of the tray and the ambient light did their jobs nagging Fitz awake. I think at this point I was reading a biochemistry text, attempting to get the background information and depth of knowledge I hungered for.

Fitz awoke gradually, pulled on a thick terry-cloth robe, and stumbled towards the food. His hair was a massive tsunami of curls. Absentmindedly he offered me tea, and I gratefully – if only semi-cognizant – accepted.

Once Fitz had breakfasted and brushed the cobwebs from his mind, he proceeded with his toilet. Once he was fully ready for the day, I put away my textbook, dropped the breakfast tray off in the kitchen, and joined Fitz in the workroom.

Fitz had gotten the generator started up and had begun his work. The past month had given me enough engineering knowledge that I could work semi-independently, and I turned to the small printed circuit board I had been working on the previous night and began placing the next delicate component and soldering it in place.

Of course I still needed Fitz’ instructions, but I was able to replicate his designs or prepare raw material without instructions. I greatly enjoyed the soothingly repetitive nature of carefully wrapping wires into solenoids or testing a pile of capacitors.

That morning I replicated Fitz’ model circuits a few times – building the motherboards for more walkie-talkies – while Fitz brainstormed his next technological advancement. Fitz’ walkie-talkies were a success – he had communicated with a friend in Dundee – but he had only been able to get a few frequencies to work. He was attempting to build a sort of ham radio to scan for more clear frequencies and maintain contact with multiple sets of walkie-talkies.

I ran out of prepped transistors at around the same time as my breakfast was wearing a bit thin. After checking on Fitz, who was scribbling angrily on the latest of many, many pieces of paper, I left to fetch us our lunches.

There was a thick, hearty soup with only a passing acquaintance with meat for me, and a thick pork chop with applesauce, potatoes, squash, and a pot of tea for Fitz.

Since the almost-incident in the library I had begun pleading busyness to get away with eating in Fitz’ room, and since I pledged to help Fitz save the world, it was no longer an exaggeration.

I cajoled Fitz away from his diagrams and forced a fork into his hand. He ate with the preoccupied air of one wrapped up in his own thoughts and in response, I too began to daydream. I can’t say I remember exactly what I imagined during that meal, but many times during this period I mused about my future. How I could complete my training as a pharmacist. How I could begin to help people, develop a name for myself. How once my indenture was over I’d be able to take my skills and reputation and start a practice. How I could bring my family across the border legally. How we could settle in one of the nearby, vacant cottages. How as long as we stayed out of Master Reginald Fitz’ notice, life would be good.

I tore myself from my reverie and pounded down the rest of the now-cool soup. Fitz was similarly almost done with his midday meal, and I ventured interrupting his contemplation to ask about my next step. I _could_ go through the pile of spare parts for the correct kind of transistors to make more walkie-talkies or whatever.

Fitz agreed that sorting through the spare parts bin would be a good idea and he returned to his radio scanner device diagrams. I was a little disappointed. I had hoped Fitz would have an idea of something **else** that needed to be done; sorting through the pile of electronic dreck was less than pleasant.

Like many gentleman scholars before him, Fitz had the luxury of having his idiosyncrasies catered to. The village children were bribed with cookies to bring in any electronics they found, and several traders from the south made regular stops at the Manor transporting electronic scraps.

Fitz had been in the habit of sifting through the bits and bobs himself, rendering out the still useful pieces from the rubbish, but he had begun to trust me with that activity. An activity that gave me such new and unique calluses on the tips of my fingers from carefully prying soldered-in components out.

That being said, I got so wrapped up in the process of taking apart and inspecting various electronic components, I startled when Mr. Sitwell dropped off Fitz’ tea tray in irritation. I checked the grandfather clock. I was supposed to have picked up the tray almost an hour ago. Oh well.

Fitz shared his tea and biscuits with me as he tried talking through a technical issue. I remember this day because my feedback was helpful and Fitz said that he was glad I was there. It wasn’t the first time he had expressed such feelings, nor was it the last, but he wasn’t demonstrative very frequently, and it was memorable.

After tea, Fitz returned to his draft board with renewed vigor and I sorted through more electronic bits in a desultory manner – my mind on Fitz’ statement and my great fortune – until it was time for me to prepare Fitz’ bath.

Once Fitz’ bath was ready, I persuaded him from his sketches and as he turned off the generator, I returned to my biochemistry text.

Fitz bathed and then dressed for dinner. Master Reginald insisted upon everyone dressing for dinner – even if it was only going to be a small family affair – something Skye simply could not comprehend.

I washed up a bit in Fitz’ tepid water – sorting through electronic junk was dirty work – and read some more.

My dinner was a quiet event. Common knowledge had concluded long ago that I was “uppity” so the other upper servants had nothing to do with me. Which was fine. I had Skye and I had Fitz. That was enough.

After dinner Fitz and I played two games of chess. If gaslight was too dim to mend by, it was too dim to design by too, or so I insisted. I lost both games, but it was quite pleasant. Fitz had begun to set up for a third when I yawned loudly. I excused myself, and went to bed.

After my brief absolutions, I crawled into bed, and as tired as I was, I still lay awake for a while thinking about Fitz’ teatime words. _“I’m glad yoo’re here.”_


	12. Day 144 – Lessons and Confusion

Late winter sleet passed into early spring rain and, before I knew it, the bulbs around the manor were in bloom (once Skye asked me to pick some daffodils to brighten up Fitz’s workroom, I’m not sure he even noticed them he was so intent on his inventions).

Fitz kept his promise – I more than half feared he wouldn’t – and set up my apprenticeship with the pharmacist one village over.

* * *

On April 12th, a bright spring day, I left the manor with the Cook’s assistant. He was going to pick up an order from the Butcher’s and drop me off on the way.

The Cook’s assistant was a taciturn man who only grunted in reply to my attempts at conversation, so I had no qualms about letting my mind wander during the bumpy ride (the roads had not yet been patched from the spring run-off).

And so, I thought back to the bombshell Fitz had dropped the night before.

He told me over our nightly chess match, “The rumors an’ propaganda ‘bout the tagging chips are all lies – or at least mostly. They cannae be remotely tracked – no more satellites even if the chips _did_ have a GPS-tag, which most donnae. They cannae be remotely detonated – the none of the chips ever had any explosives. All the tagging chips can do is be scanned from a maximum of a couple of meters away an’ be programed with the information on th’ bond holder.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I had asked bluntly.

Fitz looked embarrassed and ill-at-ease, “I wanted you to know. Just because. I donnae want ye to bide out of fear caused by some outrageous lies.”

I didn’t know what to do, and at the time, I did nothing – just stood frozen.

“I jist wanted ye to know,” Fitz said blue eyes glittering with _something_ before abandoning the game to give me a bit of space - or run away himself.

I shook myself out of my astonishment – the news itself wasn’t too much of a shocker, I had deduced fairly early on that the tech wouldn’t work if I got far enough south, and more recently I realized that given the technical difficulties of setting up a radio relay, it was unlikely an advanced system to blow the heads off of runaways existed. What was startling was the fact that Fitz told me outright, and the reason he told me. What was even more startling was my instinctive reaction to his actions was this odd sort of low ache. A yearning for something unnamed and unnamable.

I tried to determine what that yearning was for, and why Fitz’ revelation triggered it as I readied for bed. And as I tossed and turned. And as I broke my fast.

I spent the whole trip attempting to puzzle out this reaction – to no avail, it would take several more months before I figured out this particular issue – and thinking about the implications of the news. I had not even considered running away – at least not seriously. That first day the thought _had_ entered my mind, but I knew the Scottish authorities would be keeping tabs on my family – both to ensure they didn’t attempt another border crossing, and to use as collateral for my good behavior. My own death-by-tagging chip wasn’t nearly as strong of a deterrent as the possibility of retributions raining down upon my mother, father, brother, and baby sister. And then my indenture turned out to be wonderful beyond my wildest imaginings – pulling up to the cottage/workshop of the pharmacist notwithstanding.

A short, dark, bald man greeted us and I put aside my Fitz-inspired confusion for the long walk back, and focused on extracting every milliliter of information I could from Mr. Triplett.

He started out with an exam of sorts to figure out what I knew, and after easily identifying the difference between willow bark and the inner bark of a cherry tree – and listing medicinal uses for each (pain and fever relief vs. cough suppression). Gaps in my scholarship became pronounced when he asked me to list the difference between a tincture and a tisane and make one of each. Of course I knew a tisane was an herbal extraction with hot water and a tincture was an herbal extraction with alcohol, but I did not know the volumes and times for any but the simplest teas.

He nodded and smiled a wee bit, muttering, “Ah but I do have somethin’ to show you.”

He tested my knowledge of all of the barks, leaves, roots, and powders on the first shelf of his stillroom. I could identify perhaps two-thirds of them without looking at their labels, and knew most of the medicinal properties for the rest once they were identified. A few times he asked me to cite my source for a particular use for an herb and hmmmed speculatively.

He pulled out a workbook and opened it to a simple protocol for extracting salicin for later production of aspirin and told me to get to it. He watched me set up a pot of water and begin the extraction process before nodding and murmuring to himself, “The woman will be more help than I thought.”

He turned to a more complex synthesis, which I longed to watch, but I knew I’d have more time for that later; I needed to prove myself today and letting the willow bark scorch would _not_ be a way to do that.

Mr. Triplett watched me filter the tisane and then helped me set up the crystallization process. Once the flask was chilling in cold spring water, he gestured at the wash pump out back and then nodded upstairs.

I followed the unspoken command and washed up before following him upstairs. He was inhaling a cured tongue sandwich and there was one for me as well. There was also a mug of some piney infusion, which I recognized after taking my first sip.

“Tea made from young pine needles, a good source of vitamin C. Good for preventing spring colds and scurvy.”

He nodded, saying (around a full mouth), “And tasty.”

I soon learned Mr. Triplett was one of those people who devoted their full attention to eating and did not appreciate lunchtime conversation, so even that terse response was unusual.

After lunch I helped Mr. Triplett sort, clean, dry, rotate, mince, and grind the various raw plant materials he had gathered the day before. I learned so much from his mutterings.

He called it quits in the late afternoon and wordlessly commanded I wash up again. He was a neat freak. Which was a good trait for someone in a medical profession.

As I readied to leave he said, “I’ve changed my mind.”

My heart stopped, what had I done?

“You’re a bright lassie, you can come back more than twice a week, if you can be spared.”

I breathed again, “Thank you sir.”

He quirked a half-grin and shooed me off, “Now get on home!”

It was a long walk back to the manor and my mind was chockablock with hands-on information about herbal and herbally-derived medicines. It wasn’t until I had walked the eight kilometers home, ate a simple dinner, and curled up in bed did I remember my earlier riddle. Why did Fitz tell me that the tagging chip was nigh useless and why did he say that he didn’t want me to stay for the wrong reasons?


	13. Day 233 – Idiot Geniuses

My apprenticeship with Mr. Triplett proceeded apace. He and Fitz settled on new a four-days-a-week schedule: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and Friday. I’d get a ride to the pharmacy Monday and Friday mornings and sleep in the sickroom most Monday and Tuesday nights.

Being able to spend days at a time there allowed me to learn how to go from wild-growing plant to elixir and it was simply _earthshattering_.

I knew from working with my mother that I enjoyed helping people, but this… this was my _calling_. The persnickety protocols and gentle refluxes, the careful recrystallizations and limited harvesting filled me with such a feeling of rightness and purpose.

I would return home Wednesday nights ‘glowing’ - as Skye called it - with my mind bubbling full of information.

I continued to assist Fitz in the workroom and even mend his clothes, but many of my original duties – such as fetching meals and running baths – reverted back to Mr. Sitwell. He was very put out by this. I’m not sure why, as I had only taken them off his hands for a few months.

Near the beginning of the apprenticeship, Fitz would get this small self-satisfied grin every time I babbled on about something I learned, but at some point his secondhand pleasure turned sullen. It took me a long time to notice, and I’m still not sure when it happened exactly.

In late May, Fitz cancelled our regular Chess matches, reminding me that we had more important things to do. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I knew he was busy, and I wasn’t around as much, but we still were working together to save the world.

In mid June, Skye pulled me aside and told me I had to fix this. I didn’t know what was wrong. I had realized Fitz had gotten quiet and distant, but it wasn’t until Skye’s prompting did I determine the correlation between me babbling about what Trip had taught me, and Fitz growing more distant and grumpy. I didn’t know how to fix it.

Eventually, I stopped mentioning my studies all together, and instead asked Fitz about his work and things got a _bit_ less strained.

* * *

“So,” Fitz started one Saturday morning in July as I was thinking about the possibility of mixing several different antiseptic plant extracts to make a better wound-cleaning solution whilst assembling a circuit board.

I looked up. Fitz was nervous but determined, blue eyes darting about not making contact with mine, hands clutched at his sides. At the moment I was certain he was going to tell me to stop my daydreaming and focus on our work.

Fitz took a steadying breath, “Do ye want me to transfer yer bond to Mr. Triplett? He’s asked me for it several times.”

_What?_ “No!” I blurted out forcefully.

Fitz blinked uncertainly, and I was startled at the vehemence of my reaction too.

“What happened?” He transitioned from nervous to concerned, “I thought ye liked Mr. Triplett.”

“Nothing happened, and I do,” I floundered, “I mean, yes, I’ve learned a lot, and he’s a good teacher, and he hasn’t done anything…”

“But? Ye spend more time over there as it is, and ye might even be able to decrease yer indenture for such skilled work.”

I hadn’t thought about changing the terms of my indenture, and if I really thought about it, my head told me it was an idea worth considering. But my heart, well, my heart didn’t want to go, and I didn’t even know why, besides the fact I owed Fitz for so much.

But how would I communicate this when I didn’t even comprehend it myself?

“I don’t want to go. I owe you so much,” I tried.

“Jemma,” he stepped forward, “Ye don’t owe me _anythin’_.”

I grabbed his (slightly damp) hand, “Yes, yes I do.” I tried to communicate my feelings, which I couldn’t even process myself, through our clasped hands and my eyes.

He brushed off my hands and took a step back, “No ye don't. I owe ye."

I didn't know how to respond.

"Weel, just think about it, okay?” He added.

I nodded reluctantly and then remembered an important point, “If you transfer my bond, I won’t be able to help you save the world!”

Fitz gave me an inscrutable little look before retreating into his bedroom, leaving me in the workroom with my thoughts.

* * *

That afternoon, Fitz sent Skye to talk to me. Of course she had some pretense or other to call me off to a neutral location – the laundry – but we both knew what it was truly about.

Once I was settled in the scorching sauna of the laundry room – mysteriously empty but for the silent and strangely comforting presence of The Woman in the Laundry – Skye got right to the point, “Why don’t you want to transfer your bond?”

I shrugged and she glared at me, her eyes communicating _that’s not an acceptable answer._

“I don’t know,” I dropped my hands to my lap, “I’m just a silly little girl.”

This made Skye lean forward, “The Jemma Simmons I know is very rarely silly and never dismissive about being a woman. What’s up?”

I stared at the steam rising from the nearest washbasin attempting to find patterns in its chaos.

“Now Leo is in a tizzy about this: at first he didn’t want to tell you ‘cause he didn’t want you to leave, then he convinced himself that he was being selfish and he _had_ to tell you, and then you say ‘No’ outright and he’s panicked about letting you go back there at all, so you need to tell me what’s going on so I can fix it,” Skye rambled without taking a breath.

I turned back to her, fixated on the second point, “Fitz doesn’t want me to leave?”

“Ah, that’s the way the wind blows...” Skye replied pseudo-sagely.

I just was confused, which must have been apparent.

“Of course not, you idiot! You’re the only one he can science with!”

I smiled.

“I know it’s not a verb,” Skye said defensively.

I chuckled, “No, that’s not it; I’m glad he doesn’t want to get rid of me.”

Skye snorted, “For a couple of geniuses you two really are thick! Okay. So he doesn’t want you to leave, and you don’t want to leave him either.”

“You think I’m a genius?” I asked startled. I was clever, but not nearly as clever as Fitz.

Skye rolled her eyes, “Not right now!”

I smiled.

“Okay, I can fix this. I’ll tell Leo that you don’t want to leave, and I’ll convince him that nothing sinister is going on at Mr. Triplett’s, and you’ll work out how to tell Leo how you feel.”

I nodded. At the time I did not get the layered meaning behind Skye’s words, nor did I realize Skye knew my heart better than I did.


	14. Day 377 – Frame-up

Well, whatever Skye told Fitz resolved the issue about transferring my bond, and it even miraculously reduced his grumpiness whenever I slipped up and talked about Trip.

But grumpy-Fitz wasn’t my only issue. The low ache, the yearning, I felt the night before my apprenticeship when Fitz told me I could run away without repercussions, and my feeling of panic when presented with the possibility of having my bond transferred, underwent a metamorphosis until even naïve little me could figure out what it was (I blame Skye).

It started with a few dreams I could brush off as being inspired by the weather or a spicy chili, but the thoughts became even more prevalent (even during waking hours) until they were impossible to ignore.

I was having carnal thoughts about my bondholder.

I didn’t know what to do with these naughty feelings; I hadn’t ever had them about a neighborhood boy or anybody (well, maybe Remus Lupin). And all of the times Fitz had said he was glad I was around – or rescued me, or made my dreams come true with this apprenticeship – had focused on my mind. He had never given any indication he wanted my body or thought about me in that manner. He had had infinite opportunities to press his advantage, but never did.

I knew that Master Fitz had thought he was gay and even Skye didn’t know for sure, which added a whole other layer to the awkwardness of the moments while watching Fitz set up a novel circuit board and I would fixate on his dexterous (if somewhat stubby) fingers placing the delicate components and wonder how dexterous they’d be on _my_ delicate components.

It was so awkward wanting him and believing he didn’t want me. Wanting to touch and thinking that to touch would only cause more awkwardness and discomfort.

I tried creating mental separation, thinking of him as Young Master Fitz again, but it didn’t work. It’s hard to create that class distinction when said Master was hock deep in a wagon of broken electronics grinning with pure, undiluted joy.

As summer faded into fall I fled even more deeply into my work with Mr. Triplett. _There_ I was not bothered by images of Leo and I snogging, me perched atop the generator, legs wrapped firmly around him, pressing him close. _There_ I didn’t have to figuratively slap myself to stop from watching Leo wake with bedhead and wonder about running my fingers through his curls, discovering their texture.

As a result, by mid-September Mr. Triplett reluctantly declared my apprenticeship complete. There would always be more to learn, but I now had all the tools I needed to pursue the knowledge myself, and besides, he said, my driven determination made him look bad in comparison.

To celebrate completing my apprenticeship, Fitz gifted me a portion of his workroom to serve as my stillroom and permanently made his meals and such Mr. Sitwell’s purview. We were now working side-by-side on separate projects every day, which only had the unexpected side effect of bringing my carnal urges to my attention more frequently.

* * *

One day, more than a year after I first met Fitz, I was pulverizing a licorice root and watching Fitz work out of the corner of my eye as I fantasized licking the grease off of his thumb (I know, I know; I have odd fantasies, and let me tell you, I wouldn’t follow through with more than half of them because engine grease would be right nasty, our worktables were far too cluttered, and I’d have to clean up any mess we’d make).

Miss Weaver hurried into the workroom and announced, “Miss Simmons, come quickly Miss Hand is quite ill!”

I dropped mortar and pestle and grabbed my small med-kit.

Unexpectedly, Fitz followed Miss Weaver and myself to the pantry where Victoria Hand had been found in a puddle of her own vomit.

I checked her temperature, skin elasticity, heart rate, and even smelled her sweat. The results were worrying.

Skye was waiting outside the pantry by the time I finished my rapid inspection.

I asked her to fetch the jar of activated charcoal I had on one of my shelves in my part of the workroom, and together Fitz and I moved Victoria out into the main kitchen.

I sent Miss Weaver to fetch a large bowl and while it was just the two of us, I whispered to Fitz, “I think she’s been poisoned.”

Fitz’ blue eyes held nothing but disbelief and he asked, “Are ye sure?”

I nodded but Miss Weaver returned before I could present my evidence.

Skye returned with the activated charcoal and cleverly, an indispensible funnel.

I dosed Victoria with the charcoal and lay her on her side, waiting for it to do its job and absorb the toxins from her stomach. After maybe fifteen minutes she began retching and once her stomach was empty I cleaned her up and The Woman from the Laundry (who had silently arrived at about the time Leo had fled from the ‘muck’) carried her to her room.

“Stay here,” The Woman from the Laundry commanded.

“What?” I sputtered.

She fixed me with a soul-piercing stare, “Hand’s been poisoned.”

“I know, that’s why…”

“You are going to be the primary suspect. I need to you stay here, out of the way, until I prove you innocent,” she said levelly.

With that sort of commanding competence I could do nothing but nod and do as I was told.

It was a tense couple of hours monitoring Victoria Hand’s condition and keeping her hydrated. Wiping off her toxin-filled sweat while waiting to see if she – or I – would make it. I focused on ameliorating Hand’s condition because it was the only thing I could to. I had to trust The Woman in the Laundry – and Leo.

After a few hours, due to my diligence and her fortitude, Victoria Hand regained a degree of cognizance and demanded to see Reginald Fitz.

I flagged down Ms. Weaver who fetched Master Reginald Fitz, and as soon as he arrived I was booted from the room and kept in a pantry under the watchful eye of Mike Peterson.

I had this bizarre sort of calm like that of an iced-over stream: motionless and resting on the surface, chaotic and restless underneath. My mind could not stay focused on any one topic. I worried about what might happen to my family, or myself, but I could feel a pervasive sort of hope that I would at least get to tell Leo of my innocence before I died.

Several hours later an awkward Leo relieved Mike Peterson, his eyes shadowed with some sort of masked pain. As soon as Mike was gone, I fell to Leo’s feet and began pleading my innocence.

He knelt down and lifted me up repeating, “I ken, I ken, I ken.”

His words broke the dam holding me together. I shook with suppressed fear for who knows how long.

Once my tremors subsided somewhat, Leo explained that May (The Woman in the Laundry) had tricked Mr. Sitwell into revealing himself, somehow, and once he had been captured, he admitted that he was jealous of my cushy position and revealed that I didn’t even have to sleep with Fitz for it. Fitz went on to say that Victoria was doing fine now, and that Mr. Triplett had been called, and he was most impressed by my quick reactions and well-stocked stillroom.

It wasn’t until he stopped talking did I realize I was wrapped up in his arms and he was stroking my back in a soothing manner. I was warm, and safe, and he smelled peaty and musky.

He noticed me noticing and released me with alarming alacrity. I suppressed a sigh knowing full well it would be misinterpreted.

“Weel?” he said awkwardly.

“Well… thank you,” I imbued those simple words with as much heartfelt gratitude and feeling as I could.

Fitz looked like he wanted to say something, but after a moment’s indecision he held his tongue and instead held my ‘prison’ door open for me gallantly. I resolved then and there to stop objectifying Fitz and accept him for the great friend he was. This resolution, you already know, met with _far_ less success than my earlier resolution to see Fitz as a person instead of a position.

I dreamt of being held in Fitz’ arms for many nights to come and I _may_ have stolen one of Fitz’ used shirts and hid it under my pillow to perfume it with the smell of safety.


	15. Day 610 – Soaked

After Mr. Sitwell poisoned Victoria Hand in order to frame me, nothing much changed. No one believed Mr. Sitwell’s ‘disgruntled’ rant that I wasn’t sleeping with Fitz for my august position of manor chemist and nurse. That is, except Skye. She didn’t really understand why we weren’t ‘getting freaky with it’ as she put it once. I froze her out for almost a week after that. It was one thing to have unreciprocated feelings for my master/coworker/friend, it was yet another time to have his kid sister hound me about it and plot to get us together.

Victoria unbent enough to thank me. A bit, and reluctantly. A new servant by the name of Ward took Sitwell’s place. He was a stiff cardboard cutout of a man, but he didn’t resent me for my position. The fact that I tended his black eyes and lacerations and I never asked where he got them after the first outrageous lie of ‘a horse kicked me’ seemed to endear me to him somewhat.

I tried to find May for several weeks to no avail, she had ‘just stepped out’ every time I went to the laundry room and no one knew where she slept or ate. After I had given up on finding her and thanking her, I spotted her sitting calmly in the laundry as if she hadn’t been impossible to find for weeks. I thanked her and she seemed annoyed – stoic, but annoyed. I asked her where she had learned her skills and after a feint where she talked at length about her sewing skills, she replied cryptically that her Lothario of a father used to do specialized work for the Queen which, apparently, is more than anyone else had _ever_ gotten out of her.

These slight annoyances – and the fact that I hadn’t heard about my family in almost two years – aside, my life was better than I could have imagined.

I still did my own work in the stillroom. I derived great satisfaction from producing medicines people needed and the process of their production. I did some hands-on care, but between the midwife in the local village and Trip just a bit further away, there wasn’t much of a need. Which suited me just fine. The local midwife had even begun paying Master Reginald Fitz for my medicines, having found them to be at least as effective as her own!

I still worked beside Fitz and our projects began to dovetail more. I’d say off-handedly an ultrasound would be helpful for a patient, and the next day he’d pull out some sketches and we’d work together to make one. He had suggested that a native anesthetic would be helpful, and then we worked together to find a use for the rapid-tranquilizing dendrotoxin I discovered.

I still thought of Fitz in a carnal manner but, with time, I learned to compartmentalize those thoughts better. If I was a bit eager to fix his collar for him or give him a congratulatory high five after our first successful test of the ultrasound transducer, well then, they were small things and nobody noticed (except Skye).

* * *

One scorching day in late July (or at least it was scorching to me, having spent two years acclimating to Scotland) I was out collecting medicinal plants – any notions of being restricted to the Manor grounds having been done away with long ago.

I was searching for a certain grass-like plant. Its rhizome was purportedly very good at soothing the stomach of colicky babies and Mike Peterson’s young son simply would not stop crying. Mike and the local lass who had finally caught his eye were at their wits end, and though the evidence for this rhizome was sparse, even a mild placebo effect would be a welcome relief.

I crested a hillock and saw my destination spread out before me – a heather moor, the habitat of this rhizome. The autumn heather was not quite in bloom and one lone shepherd watched over a small flock several kilometers away. If I didn’t know better I’d swear it was 1507 not 2007.

Quickly the sun beat the fancy out of me and I zigzagged my way down the hill to begin my gathering.

Hours passed as I gathered leaves from this shrub and the root of that cotton-grass and the sky grew dark.

It wasn’t until the first raindrop hit me on the back of the head did I realize the sky was dark due to a fast-approaching storm and not due to dusk falling.

I looked around. The moor was deserted, the shepherd having been far more observant than I. I bundled my herbs up tightly and headed back to the manor.

The rain began falling more fiercely and within fifteen minutes I was soaked through. I put my head down and trudged onward.

As I re-crested the hill, a flash of lightning followed promptly by a crash of thunder almost made me jump out of my skin. It was damned close and I was the tallest thing about for kilometers. Bloody hell!

I squatted down, over my basket, and looked about through the thick rain. I was still the tallest thing about. Suppressing a sigh I flopped down flat to the ground.

Grass blades poked my stomach, rain pounded my back, and I began shivering fiercely. I cursed the weather, I cursed myself for thinking of going outside, and I cursed little Ace Peterson for his colic.

After an intolerable time, the lightening moved on, leaving only the pounding rain. I staggered up, tried to pull my sodded, muddy shirt off of my clammy skin to no avail and trudged home, basket of herbs swinging.

While actually walking I managed to warm myself up sufficiently to fight off the shivers, but it was a very unpleasant walk - my thighs got chapped from the friction from my sodden trousers.

By the time I made it home the rain had petered out. I entered the manor through the kitchen entrance – I didn’t want to drip all the way to my room – and stood for a moment, drenched.

Skye turned towards the door and began laughing. I bristled.

“You are just sooo wet. Oh my goodness!”

I began shivering and her laugher promptly stopped. She grabbed a thick wool blanket – from where I don’t know, Skye just seems to have blankets and jumpers hidden everywhere in the manor – and wrapped it around me. She chivvied a cook’s helper into putting a kettle on and sat me on a nearby stool. Within minutes she handed me a mug of mint tea and I inhaled the warmth.

I focused on the tea and by the time the mug was empty and the heat in my stomach had penetrated my bones, Skye had popped off and returned with dry clothes, Leo trailing behind.

Skye badgered me into changing in the pantry and whisked away my sopping, muddy mess, leaving me to Leo’s tender cares.

Leo had been muttering about foolish hens and weather forecasts and foolish hens and catching colds and foolish hens, but I paid him no mind. I dazedly followed him back to our rooms and was shocked to discover a hot bath had already been drawn.

Leo pestered me into the bath (from outside the bathroom) and I was astonished to see how muddy my skin was underneath the fresh clothing. I soaked, basking in the heat like a lizard only to be startled at some later point by Leo knocking on the bathroom door.

“Is th’ water cold yit? I’ve got caller clothes for ye if yoo’re ready to come oot,” he called.

The water _had_ cooled down, so I levered myself out of the bathwater and began drying myself down. I was puzzled to see red-purple bruises on my shins - must have been from the herb basket banging into them.

I wrapped the worn towel about myself and opened the door. Leo blushed and stammered as he handed over the second set of dry clothes. I wasn’t really showing that much skin…

I closed the door and by the time I changed and emerged, Leo had a tray with tea and plentiful thick sandwiches. It wasn’t until I saw them did I realize I was famished.

I inhaled two and a half tea sandwiches before I was rudely interrupted by a hearty sneeze.

I apologized and took another bite only to be attacked by a bevvy of sneezes – spewing said bite about the room.

“Bloody hell,” Leo spoke for the both of us. In true Austenian fashion I had caught a cold from trudging in the rain.

Leo poured me another cuppa – which I was afraid of sipping due to the incessant tingling in my nose foreshadowing another round of sneezes – and rummaged about in the linen closet for a blanket. Leo threw it over me, looking quite concerned, so I had to attempt to relieve the tension.

“Well shite," I said, "this was not how I planned on spending my summer vacay.”

Leo smiled weakly and continued fussing.

* * *

In the interest of full disclosure, I have to say I really enjoyed Leo fussing over me and making much of my summer cold. Summer colds are truly awful things – tossing, aching, not being able to breathe, and with no relief from the heat – but I got a small, secret, guilty thrill each time Leo stopped his work to check my temperature or bring me fluids.


	16. Day 1027 – Birthday Present

On the morning I turned 21 (which in another time or another place would have been a big deal) I woke expecting nothing more than to spend my time optimizing the synthesis of a bronchodilator and testing the mass spectrometer Leo had jerry rigged out of a big lead pipe, an old vacuum pump, a defunct oscilloscope, and some scuba gear. I _did_ hope I could wheedle an extra biscuit or a bit of a sweet out of the Cook on account of my birthday.

Skye, of course, had other plans…

I dressed hurriedly and scurried into our workroom. Single-mindedly, I determined the yield from my four trial syntheses and was in the process of assaying their purity by melting point analysis (Leo had built the microbalance and the heat block just for me!) when Skye inadvertently announced her presence with a loud “Damn!”

I jumped; I had been fixated on squinting at my samples in their capillary tubes, watching for the first signs of melting. I spun around to see Skye holding a large tray with pancakes, tomatoes, bacon, and tea.

She looked annoyed – and a bit sheepish too – “So much for a birthday breakfast in bed!”

I must have looked puzzled for she elaborated, “I mean, come on, it’s your birthday for heaven’s sake! A time to relax, and have fun, and eat breakfast in bed. It’s what normal people do! You can take one day off of trying to cure cancer.”

I must have given her my spiel about how cancer was many different diseases with many different suites of mutations and vastly different phenotypes, and how even if I was ‘trying to cure cancer’ I’d be trying to cure _a kind of cancer_ and I wasn’t; I was working on an asthma medication.

Skye rolled her eyes at me and badgered me back into bed – I did remember to turn off the heat block, however.

Skye’s pestering woke Leo up and he joined us in my tiny room. Skye placed the tray on my neatly made bed – no matter how in a rush I am, I always make my bed, I’d rather forget to brush my hair than make my bed – and Leo and I sat on the bed while Skye perched on my trunk/dresser. We feasted on the apple-pancakes, tomatoes, bacon, and tea while Skye first asked us what our plans for today were and then corrected our miscomprehension. My birthday plans had already been made by Skye, and we were just coming along for the ride.

The three of us were going to take the manor’s fastest carriage and team of horses into Aberdeen for the day. Skye was going to do some shopping while Leo and I would explore the Maritime Museum and the Marschal Museum. How those museums had survived The Event – or rather, the events after The Event – I’ll never know, but then again Scotland was more stable than the rest of the world.

Skye admitted later that her original plan was for the two of us to go shopping, but she decided that I’d have more fun with Leo at a museum.

When Leo groused about the elaborate schemes Skye only replied, “My best friend and sister only turns 21 once! And don’t get jealous Leo, I’ll do something just as awesome for you on your 21st.” (She didn’t; my birthday was _impossible_ to match, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves).

After Skye’s rant about birthdays being a time to relax, once we had finished the pancakes she hurried us to get dressed (or dressed fancier, in my case) and meet her by the stables.

We complied (it was always easier to do so when dealing with Skye in one of her bullheaded moods) and we were somewhat surprised to see Ward perched atop one of the refurbished and re-sprung carriages. Skye explained he was going to drive us there and be her pack-mule during the shopping – Skye had taken a shine to the older man.

It took a bit of time for me to get used to the speed we were traveling – I wasn’t accustomed to going faster than an ambling horse or my own two feet – but the carriage’s retrofitted springs made the ride quite smooth. Much of our 2-hour drive to Aberdeen was along the River Don, and I pointed out some of the more interesting riverside flora. Leo listened interestedly; Skye listened amusedly.

After we made our way through the city gates, Skye and Ward dropped us off at the Maritime Museum with a packet of dry-cured ham and soft country cheese sandwiches. We explored the museum. The collection on shipbuilding was much picked over since The Event, but Leo was much more interesting in the collection on the oil industry and the 9-meter-tall oilrig model. The diorama on whaling and the marine environment had a few factual errors, but I held my tongue.

We ate our lunches in front of an old church and then sat in the early autumn sun musing about religion and the similarities between the Genesis allegory and evolution. Once I became overheated, we walked over to the Marschal Museum and explored their anthropological exhibits. As with the Maritime Museum, the more practical exhibits pertaining to early agriculture and warfare were well picked over, but the antiquities and Scottish art exhibits were practically untouched.

Though this museum was larger, we spent less time exploring, and were done before Skye said she’d pick us up. We wandered around the remains of the University of Aberdeen and wondered aloud how things would be different if The Event had never happened. This dreary topic was normally reserved for morose musings during winter night chess matches but was, for some reason, also suitable for the once hallowed granite-clad Halls of Learning now repurposed for semi-fortified grain storage.

Off-handedly I had said, “If The Event never happened, I’d probably never had met you, and that would have been a rotten shame.”

Leo stopped in his tracks, silent for a moment, before shaking his head firmly, “Impossible. I’d _always_ find ye.”

Now it was my turn to be dumbfounded. There was this _look_ in his eyes, a mix of determination, fear, and… and love (inconceivable to me at the time) which shook me to my core.

I stepped forward, silent.

Leo stepped towards me.

I leaned forward, silent.

He leaned towards me.

I raised my hand to cup his dear – scruffy – cheek, “May I kiss you?”

He nodded, blue eyes overflowing with… longing?

I stretched up, brushing my dry lips against his. Our noses clashed, and we sprang apart feeling (looking) sheepish and awkward.

“Um, sorry!” “Och, sorry,” we said at the same time.

I giggled a little, self-consciously; _what had I done?_

Leo kicked at a cobblestone.

I’d gone and wrecked our friendship! On my birthday! But I had sworn I had seen _love_ in his eyes…. And I’d asked… But he probably only agreed to humor the birthday girl…

My thoughts circled around and around in a futile cycle.

* * *

We returned to meeting location, silently, and stood, silent, waiting for Skye, for a _long_ time. Normally our silences were companionable, easy, or focused on work, but this one wasn’t.

I sneaked glances at Leo, wondering if I needed to apologize – if I _could_ fix this – and I caught Leo glancing at me too. At the time I imaged he was glancing at me out of awkwardness or fear, but I would soon learn he felt guilty too.

Skye (and Ward) arrived after a lifetime of awkward, uncomfortable waiting, and Skye announced, “Holy cow! Who killed your puppy?!”

We shifted awkwardly, and I decided to take personal responsibility for my actions and declared, “I sexually assaulted Leo.”

“What!” Skye stood astounded; Ward looked exceedingly uncomfortable.

“I kiss-attacked him,” I elaborated, using the first (juvenile) phrase that popped into my head.

“Nae, I kiss-attacked ye!” Leo interrupted.

“No, I made the first move.”

“Nae, I’m th’ one in th’ position…”

“Time out!” Skye interceded, “Let me get this straight, you two finally kissed?”

We nodded – in unison.

Skye let out an unholy squee of glee, clapped her hands, and hug-attacked us.

After squeezing us tightly – Ward still looked exceedingly uncomfortable – Skye declared, “I knew this would work to get through your idiot genius-ness! _Well_ … actually I thought it would take the romantic seafood dinner I planned, but this is great too!”

Skye dragged our stunned arses into the carriage and directed Ward to the restaurant. (It’s odd how some parts of life in Scotland were so unchanged by The Event and others were altered dramatically). We sat quietly in the carriage and I attempted to ponder the implications of Leo’s statements – Leo thought he had kiss-attacked me… My mind was a bit fixated on replaying the brief kiss, however.

Skye bubbled and celebrated enough for the three of us.

I snapped out of my reverie upon our arrival at the restaurant. A stable boy took the horses and the four of us entered.

As Skye had pre-arranged, the restaurant only had two two-person tables available, so Fitz and I had to sit together, awkwardly.

The sommelier brought over a bottle of wine that Skye had pre-selected and I watched Fitz go through the bizarre ritual of testing the wine and nodding. The man poured for me and then left. I took a fortifying gulp of the ‘fruity’ white wine. Leo followed suit. We were silent.

I took another gulp and then – with the mindset of lancing a boil – I began, “I’m sorry for attacking you. I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable, I won’t do it again.”

Leo interrupted, “No, I’m sorry, I dinnae ken how I did it, but somehow I made ye believe that I expected that…” he made an elaborate gesture for kissing, “an’ that is unforgivable an’ I’m sorry. I dinnae ken how I’ll make it up tae ye…”

Just as I was about to interrupt in protest, a waiter arrived with raw oysters and a peppery vinegar sauce. I hadn’t had oysters since before The Event (Sheffield is quite far inland) and I didn’t really like them as a child.

The waiter left.

“You _didn’t_ make me think you expected anything…” I said.

Leo grabbed a mollusk, spooned on a bit of the pepper sauce, and slurped down the oyster with an interjection, “Salty!”

I continued, “I wanted to kiss you!”

Leo placed the spent shell back on the platter, “No, ye dinnae. Have an oyster.”

Leo’s arrogant dismissal of what I truly felt really got my goat, “No! Up until this point you haven’t played ‘The Master’ card and I refuse to allow you to play it in such a patronizing manner. You have no say over what I do or do not feel. I’ve been attracted to you for months, nay, _years_ and yes, I will try an oyster.”

Leo gaped at me for a long while. I tried an oyster. It was salty as Leo said but it was also oddly sweet and the peppery sauce also had a nice oniony zip. I had two more, and by the time I had gotten used to the slimy-firm texture Leo had rebooted enough to ask “Years?”

“Yes,” I said firmly, “I’m not sure I remember precisely when it began, but it was during my apprenticeship with Trip.”

“Well there you have it: Stockholm Syndrome.”

“Stockholm Syndrome! What do you even know about Stockholm Syndrome?!” Leo began to answer, but I talked right over him.

“This isn’t a case where the periodic absence of abuse is seen as kindness or basic human amenities are seen as generosity. It isn’t some sort of evolutionary defense mechanism to ensure one’s survival after being kidnapped by a 'cave-man' from another tribe. From day one you’ve been kind and considerate. You got me that apprenticeship; we’ve worked side-by-side in lab for years. You can’t tell me that all of those long nights playing chess, the long hours building things to make the world better, the night-night round built into this necklace to protect myself from your father – who’s gotten better since the thing with Victoria – are the mere absence of abuse! No Leopold James Fitz, you are a kind, generous, awkward, handsome, brilliant man and I _love you_!”

I wasn’t until the whole restaurant applauded did I realize my voice had grown fairly loud over the course of the rant. My face heated and I prayed to a god I didn’t believe in to disappear.

Leo was as red as I must have been.

_And_ he was silent.

I took a large gulp of my white wine, allowing the alcohol to tickle my nose and burn my throat.

Fitz silently finished his share of the oysters.

The waiter unobtrusively whisked away the empty platter. I wondered if he was indentured or a local. It sure beat thinking about myself, and how I lay all my cards out on the table, and Fitz’ silence.

I drank.

The waiter brought lobster-meat topped salads.

We ate, silently.

The waiter brought crab linguine.

We ate. I drank.

I killed the bottle of wine. The waiter asked if we’d like another. Fitz refused.

His refusal was the first words out of his mouth since my confession. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t overthink _that_ as I played with the parsley garnish.

The waiter brought a selection of desserts. I had no appetite, but I’d gone without too many times to turn down dessert. Fitz selected the caramel apple tort. I picked the cheesecake.

Intellectually, it must have been good, but it tasted like chalk to me – all bitter and gritty.

Fitz ate his tort slowly and methodically. I itched with impatience, wanting this day to be over.

Once he finally finished, we stood, waved down Skye and Ward, and left. Our meals had already been paid for in trade goods.

Ward got the carriage as we waited silently.

Skye chose to sit up front with Ward. She claimed she did so to help him when it got dark, but we all knew she just wanted to get away from our uncomfortableness.

Once we passed the town gates, Leo turned to me and said earnestly, “Can we get a redo on today?”

I nodded somberly. I knew I’d not forget, but if it made him more comfortable to pretend to forget this train wreck, then sure…

We sat silent for a minute or two before Leo tapped me on the shoulder, “Happy Birthday Jemma,” he said, leaning in slowly, cautiously, and pressing his lips on mine.

I leaned into the kiss, pressing back. I had begun to open my lips – just a bit, nothing major – when Leo leaned away, breaking off the kiss.

“I’m sorry,” Leo said.

I suppressed a chuckle, knowing it'd be misinterpreted. The kiss might not have been the kiss of my dreams, but it was nothing to apologize for.

“I was a reit arse,” Leo elaborated, “It’s just that yoo’re so brave an’ smart an’ strong an’ beautiful an’ carin’… ye cannae want someain like me.”

“I can and I do,” I said sincerely, grabbing his hands.

“I ken, now, but it took me a mo’ tae get it,” Leo replied, giving my hands a bit of a squeeze.

We spent the ride back – and much of the night – kissing and talking and rehashing our misconceptions of the past three years: our first awkward meeting. Leo catching me examining his left-handed nautilus shell. Getting more comfortable around each other. Tending his cut wrist and him finding out about my passion for biochemistry. The – unexpectedly tainted – gift of the library and the surprisingly perfect gift of a chessboard. Helping Fitz in the lab morphing into working together in _our_ lab. Our mixed and conflicted feelings about my apprenticeship with Trip – Fitz had been soooo jealous, and hadn’t even known it!


	17. Day 1567 – Meeting the Parents

The morning after my twenty-first birthday was a surprising foil to my first morning at the manor.

I awoke leisurely in Leo’s bed, but this time Leo was still in it with me. We had fallen asleep fully clothed and on opposite sides of the bed and awoke with all of the blankets and such thrown off, our feet touching and hands clasping.

I lay there a few minutes before releasing Leo’s hand and curling up on my side of the bed, thinking about the previous night’s revelations – both the heated words and the profuse reexaminations of our time together.

I dozed off again and was re-awakened by Skye squealing in delight. She sat our breakfast tray down and ran around the room, hands flapping, squeeing like a maniac.

Leo – who apparently had been awake, watching me sleep, until interrupted by Skye – attempted to talk sense into her, but gave up after a few tries, fleeing the room in search of more sensible climes.

Once he left, she plopped down on the bed and stopped her high-pitched squeeing – momentarily – to ask, “How was it? Was it awesome? Do you really love him? Are you going to stay forever? Do you need some birth control? Do you want kids? How was **_it_**?!”

“We didn’t,” I said, finally managing to do that which Leo had attempted to do since she woke me up, I harshed Skye’s squee.

“But, but, but!” Skye spewed forth, hands gesticulating wildly.

I shrugged, giving her time to process.

“After that heartfelt declaration of love I would have sworn that you kids were mere moments from getting freaky with it!”

My face resumed its then customary state of redness, I muttered out something about wanting to take it slow.

Skye responded, “You’ve had almost three years of foreplay! How much slower can you go?!”

I shrugged again, “We’re going to do this our way Skye…”

Skye sighed and nodded, and her face resumed its bright grin.

She waggled her eyebrows asking, “Well then, what _did_ you do last night?”

Over breakfast I told Skye about our talking and – blushingly – our snogging. Skye was just as curious and noisy as my own sister would have been, and I felt a brief longing to share this with Julia.

Skye reluctantly left once breakfast was over, and Leo returned, sheepishly.

“Are ye okay?” he asked.

I nodded, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Leo shrugged, “Dealin’ wi’ my sister, dealin’ wi’ me, havin’ second thoughts…”

I shook my head, and as reassuringly as possible, I grinned brightly at him, “I’m dandy, but Skye did eat your half of the breakfast.”

Leo shrugged, “I ate in th’ kitchen. So what do ye want tae do about this?”

“Well, I think I need to change into fresh clothes, and then I think we should test out our new mass spectrometer.”

Leo nodded and brightened, clearly relieved that I wanted to get back to work and not spend anymore time thinking on our relationship.

We fell into work mode as we tested and then calibrated the mass spectrometer with pure compounds of known masses. As Leo tweaked the oscilloscope, I resumed testing my bronchodilators.

We didn’t get back to our relationship discussion until after our separate dinners.

Leo was a dear – either that or an arse – and checked _again_ that ‘this all’ was something I truly wanted and not something I – in any way – felt compelled into by some sort of power imbalance.

I shut him up with a kiss – something we both were getting far better at. Practice, as they say, makes perfect.

It was surprising how the contact of lip on lip could send such warmth and tingling cascading throughout me. I could tell you of the hormonal and neurological reasons behind this, but instead, I’ll just hope you will come to know this sensation when the time is right.

* * *

As time passed, we become more comfortable with our transforming relationship and work and ‘play’ became less strictly segregated. Leo was uncomfortable with displays of affection in public places – our lab included – but my fantasy of snogging, me perched on top the generator, my legs wrapped firmly around him, pressing him close, did come true ( **!!!** )

I began investigating phytoestrogens to supplement our waning birth control supply and did a bit of literature searching on modes and positions of intercourse – I wanted to be prepared when the time was right.

In early December – about the time I felt that we both were really ready to take _that_ step – Master Reginald began feeling poorly. His stomach hurt and he had no appetite, but it wasn’t until he became jaundiced did I begin to worry.

I used the ultrasound Leo and I built to see what I could see. It was very bad news. There was a large, intensely vascularized tumor engulfing his pancreas and liver.

Master Reginald had stage IV pancreatic cancer.

I tried to help, tried to synthesize what had been a cutting edge chemotherapeutic, but even Before they wouldn’t have been able to do much. In the end, at his bequest, I brought his suffering to an end.

Leo became Master.

Which didn’t change much. Our relationship continued to evolve, and I comforted Leo to the best of my abilities, acknowledging his mixed feeling about his father, and the struggles and responsibilities in replacing him.

May disappeared with a mysterious Mary Poppins-esque note saying that she wasn’t needed here anymore. What ever that meant.

Around this time Skye and Ward began a relationship as well.

Skye took over much of the day-to-day duties of being Master, allowing Leo to mostly serve as figurehead, and most importantly, continue his work – our work – in the laboratory.

Leo decreed the successive early release and replacement of all the indentured servants with locals or _voluntary_ immigrants.

This appeared to be disingenuous when I was the first one legally liberated in that fashion – and rewarded him in such a _physical_ manner (not that anyone _knew_ about that aspect, we would have died of mortification had **that** become common knowledge around the manor) – but Leo followed through, and by March everyone had been released.

Including Ward. Many of the released servants chose to remain, earning wages, but Ward left as soon as his indenture was over. Skye was devastated, and hasn’t heard from him since.

Stated as part of the plan to replace the freed servants with voluntary immigrants, Leo invited my family up from Sheffield. It was a truly biased decision and I loved him for it.

He sent an invitation through the very unreliable post, and finally got a letter back. My mother wrote it and the suspicion fairly dripped from each word. Somehow, I managed to convince her that Leo wasn’t inviting them up to have hostages against me or somesuch, and they – with the exception of my brother who had a wife (whom I hardly knew) and a life in Sheffield – agreed to come.

* * *

I didn’t know when they’d arrive, so I’d been a massive ball of nerves since we received notification a week prior from the border guards saying that they’d crossed with Leo’s formal letter. The border guards also said that they did not have any spare guards for escort duty so if the British muck never showed it wasn’t their fault.

Leo was a saint and a half for putting up with my excitement, compulsive cleaning, and fussing while dealing with his own ‘meet the parents’ anxiety.

On March 5th, more than four years after I’d been separated from my family, Skye ran into the lab exclaiming, “The British are coming, the British are coming!”

Leo and I both glared at her in response. She’d been ‘practicing’ that pun for a month.

I adjusted my skirt and checked my hair before badgering Leo into his blue jacket – the nice one that brought out his eyes. Then I tugged Leo along towards the main entrance before he stopped, worried. He fiddled with his jacket with his free hand.

I grabbed his hand and squeezed them firmly, “It’ll be okay; I promise you. They’ll like you, and even if they don’t, I still love you.”

I kissed him, leaning into the now familiar dance of lip and tongue, playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. I fixed his collar (again, I’d mussed it during our kiss) and marched towards the door.

Oddly comforted and fortified myself, I stood ready to meet the now-strangers who were my flesh-and-blood.

We settled in the foyer, waiting, and Leo wrapped his arm around me, tucking me under his arm. I wrapped my arm around his waist, pleased as punch that he initiated this public display of affection.

We stood that way, comforting one another with our presence until there was a knock on the door.

Skye leapt forward and threw open the door, “Welcome Mr. and Mrs. Simmons, Julia, welcome. I’m so glad you could come!”

Skye rambled on, but I took no note of her. I was focused on examining my family. My sister had grown six inches and was then taller than me. And most decidedly a woman instead of the awkward girl I had known. Father had lost some weight. His shirt hung loosely about his neck. Mother looked pale. There was more gray in her hair, and she just seemed so fragile. The woman I had known was vibrant and energetic, no matter what the occasion; this woman looked haggard and worn.

I stepped out from underneath Leo’s comforting arm and embraced my mother – Skye having rubbed off on me. She felt brittle and world-weary.

I embraced my father; he was lean and boney. He’d always been slender, but these years apart hadn’t treated him well.

I hugged my sister, laughingly remarking on how tall she’d grown; she retorted solemnly, “That happens when you’re gone for four years.”

My laughs turned to tears – Skye’s influence once again, losing that stiff upper lip – and embraced my mother once more.

When the hug ended, I found the foyer to be vacant of all but the Simmons family. Leo and Skye had mercifully left.

I took over Skye’s role as babbling ambassador, and tried to condense four years of reminisces, yearnings, and questions, into as short a period of time as possible.

Midway through, my mother halted my profusion, and firmly looked me in the eye; she asked, “Are you okay? Unharmed?”

Just as seriously, I replied, “Yes Mum, I’m fine, I’m better than fine, I’m wonderful!”

She sniffed in doubt.

I continued, “I have a wonderful lab where I make medicines for the manor and nearby villages. I have Leo, and we work together to save the world one wind-powered water-pump at a time. We even built an ultrasound Mother, an ultrasound! I have Skye, and now you’re here and you’re safe.”

Mother nodded and eased off of it.

I led my family on a tour of the manor, our lab – which had grown to engulf Leo’s old bedroom – my room (in the same wing as Skye’s, and hardly ever used), and finally the den where Leo and Skye were waiting.

I showed off the well-loved chessboard I made Leo that first Christmas, and we attempted to keep a civil conversation going.

But it was so awkward! I had naturally sat down beside Leo, and my mother was clearly reading a lot into it, silently judging us.

I tried to talk about my medical studies, but even my mother didn’t appear interested. Skye attempted to bond with Julia, but her reticence was unswayed.

My father asked Leo about managing the manor and Leo admitted he didn’t really do much, he mostly worked in the lab; Skye did most of the day-to-day stuff. My father sniffed disapprovingly.

After one torturous hour, Ms. Weaver came to announce that dinner was ready. The six of us sat down to a fancy dinner the likes of which I’d rarely experienced – once Leo had become Master he’d done away with as much of the trimmings of opulence as possible, but for some reason, Victoria thought it was necessary under the circumstances.

There was course after course of food, and at the beginning my family was overawed by the abundance, but by the end my mother and father grew hard, critical. They didn’t say anything, but I knew an explosion was imminent.

At the end of dinner, my sister began yawning and Skye volunteered to show my family their temporary quarters. My mother abstained, saying she wanted to talk to me, but my father and sister agreed readily.

Anxiously, I led my mother to my room and closed the door.

She began tearing into me, her voice never increasing in volume, “I thought we raised you better than that. Putting good food to waste with an opulent show? Being all uppity and rubbing our noses in your spiffing fortune? Do you know what your sister, father, and I went through to get here? Just so you could show off how smart you are, and your lab and your ultrasound. And you’re so smart that you don’t even see how that Fitz boy is using you. Because he is. He doesn’t care about you. You’ve just been twisted about.”

I stood beneath the onslaught, having had the last part of dinner to mentally prepare.

Once my mother had purged her vitriol, I replied as calmly as I could, “I love Leo. I love you. I’m glad you are here. The dinner _was_ in poor taste; I’ll talk to Ms. Hand about that. Good night Mother.”

I left resolutely, shutting the door behind me softly, and steadily walked to Leo’s new room to throw myself into his arms, sobbing.

It took a while for Leo to ascertain what was the matter. I clung to him, my tears soaking through his shirt, gasping out words of explanation in between wracking, choking sobs. Leo held me, patting my back as I sobbed out my shock at the betrayal, my crushed dreams of a happily-ever-after.

I cried until I was wrung completely dry, and Leo tucked me into bed with a soft kiss on each of my tear-strewn cheeks.

I woke momentarily when Leo joined me in bed and groggily I snuggled up against his toasty frame.

When I awoke again in the middle of the night – a long Scottish early-spring night – my head was pillowed on Leo’s lightly furred chest and I was sprawled on the diagonal. There’s just something about that massive bedstead that inspires sprawling…

I wiggled back to the top of the bed, replacing my Leo-pillow for a more conventional one. In so doing, I inadvertently woke Leo, who sleepily opposed my abandonment.

Grinning with amusement, I leaned over and kissed him on his beloved – and quite powerful – forehead/frontal lobe.

Leo caught my retreating shoulder and gently tugged me close, “How are ye fairin’ from lest night?

I shrugged, knowing that while he couldn’t really see the movement, he could feel it.

“My eyes are sore, from the crying,” I added, knowing full well that wasn’t what he was asking about.

“Nae, I mean about yer mum.”

I sighed, “I don’t know.”

We lay silently, entangled, for some time.

When I attempted to disentangle myself, Leo protested with a kiss. His protests grew more demonstrative as his nimble, calloused fingers joined in. All thoughts of returning to sleep vanished as I rejoiced in the caress of his skin against mine. He filled the hollow ache in my heart – the ache of dashed disappointments and intimate betrayal – with joy and brightness. I was fascinated by his familiar form and feasted on the feel of his body in mine. We basked together, letting the deep hum of contentment oscillate between us as we drowsed.


	18. Day 2584 – Happily Ever After

I brought my family up to Scotland, not to rub their faces in my wonderful life, but to get them safely out of the detritus of Britain. But the next morning I could see my mother’s side as well. And she was right; I didn’t know the struggles and hardships they’d been through since we were separated. And she was under a lot of stress. She did not truly mean the hurtful things she said. It was easy to forgive her.

It was harder to convince her of the goodness of Leo’s character and the sincerity of our relationship – especially as Leo glowered at her constantly for two months straight (because she made me cry).

My father was easily swayed by the generosity of Leo’s library and natural science collections, and my sister seemed to not have an opinion on the matter – or on anything really – a huge change from the girl I once giggled with.

My family’s _legal_ invitation was to come as manor midwife, handy man, and maid-of-all-work, but when the village midwife’s daughter in Aberdeen died, leaving her four young grandchildren motherless, the village midwife moved into the city. Things were still tense between my mother and us, so when Leo suggested that my mother should move into the village; we were all secretly relieved.

Things were far smoother having my family in the village. Leo and I were more at ease, and so were they. Times had been tough for my family, but they were uncomfortable kotowing to my boyfriend for a cushy life. (Not that, in fact, one was dependent on the other). Conversely, Leo was happy that he no longer felt judged constantly by my family, and I was glad I wasn’t stuck in the middle anymore.

Skye tried to maintain the façade that she was all right, but it took her a very long time to get over Ward’s unexpected abandonment. Her honest, earnest heart was never quite the same. Skye tried to befriend Julia, but to no avail.

Leo and I continued our work reclaiming lost scientific knowledge and improving the world. Leo and Skye continued to work to improve the welfare of the manor’s dependents.

Leo and I got married May 16th, 2011 – five and a half years after we met. It was a small, simple affair - despite Skye’s best efforts. I wore bespoke sundress, and carried a bouquet of lilacs. My wedding band was etched with a double helix (the rise and pitch of the base pairs were not that of B-form nor A-form DNA, but it’s the thought that counts). The ring I gave to Leo as I promised to love and cherish him for better or for worse was etched with gears.

My family seemed happy for me – not as happy as Ms. Weaver, Trip, Mike Peterson, and Skye were, but happy never the less.

* * *

Not everything between Leo and I is always smooth – I don’t want to set you up for unrealistic life expectations. There is no happily ever after, only a journey with periods of bliss and periods of blah.

We have our squabbles about petty things: snacking in bed, leaving equipment on, straining eyes by reading by candlelight. Also Leo really wants to get a monkey as a lab assistant. I’ve told him many times about the difficulties in training them, the possibilities of zoonosis, and the ultimate issue of actually finding one to no avail.

Skye began pushing for a return of the Parliament, and she succeeded (Leo's walky-talkies were critical to the process of re-instituting the Parliament). She was elected to represent our constituency on a platform of ‘One hundred pieces with 1% of the solution working together to solve the puzzle.’  She is currently doing good works in Parliament. We couldn’t be prouder.

Ms. Weaver took over many of Skye’s responsibilities – much to Victoria Hand’s displeasure (though she was too busy to take them on herself). And Victoria still looks down upon me – literally and figuratively.

My mother’s practice took a bit of time to get going, but once the villagers trusted Mum, things really took off. Mum is content as queen of her domain and Julia is learning the tricks of the trade to keep Mum happy. Father has gained some weight, and has a moth and butterfly collection that quickly over took Leo’s.

* * *

Leo and I started trying to conceive about six months ago, and yesterday - Dec 15th 2012 - I first became **certain** that you existed.

Seeing your hummingbird heartbeat for the first time was a bloody revelation. A new life in this broken world. A new life with slightly more than half of its genetic information coming from me (mitochondria and their genomes are strictly maternally inherited).

Due to my difficulties explaining – no, _convincing_ – my family that Leo and I truly love each other, I decided to write this all down. If something happens to me – and childbirth is more dangerous than it was Before – I want you to know my side of the story. The whole story. Even the nitty-gritty (naughty) details that I’d (probably) not have the fortitude to share with you face-to-face. I’m sure I’ve left some things out – human memory by its very nature is imperfect – but you need to know the whole story, so you can draw your own conclusions.

Hopefully you’ll live in a world with resurrected technology, a brilliant and doting father, an aunt with an overflowing heart, and me, and you’ll never wonder how your mother met and fell in love with your father for we will demonstrate our love daily. But that is not certain. And I excel at planning for contingencies. Thus, this was written. Despite our beginning, the stops, the starts, the confusion and miscomprehensions, your mother loved your father deeply, and your father loved your mother truly. And please disregard the tearstains; your hypothalamic development is wreaking havoc with my progesterone levels and thus my emotional equilibrium.

Now I’m going to hide this document in my old room, and hopefully you’ll never need to read it. I have to go find you father and tell him of your existence, and write to your aunt Skye too.

In case you never hear me say this: I love you baby. I love you so much. My love for you is uncountably infinite. My love for you is expanding faster than the universe. I love your developing pituitary gland, despite its effect on my emotions. I love your fetal haemoglobin, optimized to extract oxygen from mine. I love your hummingbird heart, beating so fast in a body so small. I can’t wait to meet you.

All is right in the world and all will be right, now that you’re here.

-       Jemma Fitz-Simmons

 

 

If anyone else is reading this, please return it to its hiding place or give it to my child(ren).

Skye, if you’re reading this, put this back and stop snooping! I swear you’re the nosiest person I’ve ever known. And yes Skye, you do still dance about the manor. And yes I've had naughty thoughts about Lupin, so sue me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading this novella! Your comments, subscriptions, and bookmarks have been affirming. If you liked it, leave me a comment – they make my day brighter. If you didn’t like an aspect, leave me a critique – it’s how I get better.
> 
> If you want to see a story about Melinda May, daughter of James Bond, on her mission to save the world one malleable genius at a time, leave me a comment.


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